


Frost & Raine

by luninosity



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Coffee Shops, Dom/sub, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, Ice Powers, Love Confessions, M/M, Personification, Porn with Feelings, Romance, not really enemies but they're definitely sarcastic at each other at the beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-06 14:21:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16834342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: The Cupid came into Don’s coffee-shop on February fifteenth, under pink hearts and red roses, with a slim leather briefcase in one hand, and glared at the biggest bouquet on the closest table as if it’d personally offended him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Still sort of a work in progress, but I've been wanting to share! And how this draft is up to 17k already I do not know...

The Cupid came into Don’s coffee-shop on February fifteenth, under pink hearts and red roses, with a slim leather briefcase in one hand, and glared at the biggest bouquet on the closest table as if it’d personally offended him. “No.”

“What’ve you got against defenseless flowers?” Don had already begun making his coffee. Black, strong, plain: easy enough, and familiar after eight weeks of mid-morning caffeine-themed encounters. Covertly, he watched those elegant fingers, that annoyed scowl. Raine Amari had pale green-gold eyes and pale red hair, an unusual tumble of curling gold-washed cinnamon Don’d never seen on anyone else; Raine dressed like the embodiment of the universe’s—or at least Seattle’s— most flawless crisply-suited high-powered lawyer, which he in fact was.

He’d arrived from Los Angeles eight weeks ago, a fact which Don knew because the name had been recognizable. Mentioned in a few tabloids, a few of those gossip sites Don’s ex-boyfriend had liked to devour. High-profile celebrity divorce settlements, billion-dollar agreements, a smile that’d been caught in a few snapshots: the rare and exotic and beautiful Cupid who paradoxically made a living from separations. One enterprising tabloid reporter’d suggested that Raine had been the reason for one of those divorces, with no greater substantiation than Raine’s good looks and Cupid heritage. This was almost certainly untrue, but nevertheless: Raine had departed Los Angeles and arrived here. Incontrovertibly so. Frequently with caffeine in hand.

And he was exactly Don’s type, graceful and dazzlingly competent and more brilliant than anyone Don’d ever met, the sort of person who might’ve been made to feature in every fantasy ever daydreamed by anyone; he was also not at all Don’s type, because—

“It’s February fifteenth. Valentine’s Day is _over_. And your little ice displays in the window are just showing off.”

Don ignored the critique of his windows—Raine knew perfectly well that no Cupid had room to comment on a Frost’s ice-patterns, thank you—and reminded himself that he _liked_ being a patient and happy sort of person, dammit, and also Raine tipped his baristas well when Don himself wasn’t here at Brewed. “Isn’t it sort of your holiday? And how’s your day been?”

“You mean the commemoration of commercialization and insincere affection?” Raine cocked an eyebrow at him. Don found this cynicism unfairly attractive. Why did irony and skepticism have to be gorgeous and sarcastic and here in his coffee-shop? “And my day has so far involved your overhead mobile made of lopsided hearts and the assemblage of complicated arguments regarding custody rights to a Chihuahua. Don’t you dare draw anything on the top of that.”

“I couldn’t if I wanted to. You never order anything with foam.” Don handed over the coffee. Tried not to feel large and clumsy and underdressed in jeans and apron and blue plaid flannel shirt and the two-week growth of fuzzy brown beard he’d been contemplating keeping. He hadn’t deliberately meant to aim for the hipster grunge outfit; he liked being cozy, and he liked being comfortable. Raine would probably look at Don’s feet and judge his much-loved Converse with a single devastating eyebrow. It was, Don considered, entirely possible that Raine, in those irritatingly flattering fashion-model outfits, did not even know what sneakers were.

He added, “I was thinking four-leaf clovers. For St Patrick’s Day. The windows.”

“At least it wouldn’t be hearts.” Raine took a sip, closed those pretty eyes in appreciation, let out a little sound of satisfaction.

This sound was unfair. Someone so brittle and pointy shouldn’t have moments of steam-kissed happiness, sighs of pleasure, glimpses of delight. Don swallowed. Hard.

“Thank you,” Raine said, scrupulous about this as ever—the polished lawyer façade had snapped back into place—and turned to go.

Don said, “Chihuahua?”

“We’re working out visitation schedules. I don’t entirely understand why anyone needs to visit a tiny animal that looks and sounds like a demented miniature alien crossed with a hyperactive fire alarm, but then again I don’t understand a lot about people, so I’ve given up trying.” Raine might have been answering out of politeness, or might’ve simply wanted to be annoyed about small dogs to a willing audience. His fingers were long and slender around the coffee, artwork over a disposable cup.

“But you do understand people,” Don said.

Raine glared at him over morning caffeine. “Don’t say it’s because I’m a Cupid. Personifications’re as fallible as anyone else, I know you know, and assuming I know anything more than anyone else about desire is—”

“No,” Don said. “You’re working it out. For them. Because it matters to them, even if it doesn’t to you.”

“It doesn’t,” Raine said, and turned and went out: heading for the stairs and the upper floor of the corporate building, all glass and smoky steel and February mist.

Don, alone with coffee and a college-student employee and tables that needed cleaning, considered window art. Valentine’s Day was over, after all. And he had a reputation, as a Frost, to uphold.

He went over and pressed fingertips to windowpanes. He let the cold ripple out: clean and crisp and familiar as a kitten, wreathing around chilled shapes. He was not the best artist; he was only a minor talent, one among any number of Frosts, omnipresent and dutifully recorded on the Magical Personifications Register. Anyone could, in theory, look up everything about him; most people didn’t bother. Frost was easy, simple, taken for granted.

Kit, the very human college-student employee and Don’s current favorite barista, said, “Want me to order more mint syrup, if you’re going to start doing green things? For St Patrick’s Day.”

“No,” Don said. “I mean yes. Sure. Why not.” The windows bloomed: fields of clover, three leaves and four, happy and lucky and hopefully enticing customers. Most of their clientele came from that downtown corporate population in any case; two other regulars came in from the real estate office across the street and waved. Kit got busy with the almond milk.

Don regarded the window, thoughtfully, and added a tiny puppy, gamboling among clover. It was the least he could do.

“It looks like a beagle,” Raine said, two days later. This comment came without any precursor; Don handed over coffee—black, plain, strong—and answered, “I wasn’t aiming for any particular breed.”

“So it was a coincidence.” Raine took the coffee. He was wearing grey and green today, a suit that’d likely cost more than Don’s yearly rent and made those astonishing eyes glow like bewitched sage and sugar. Both the Tooth Fairies—one male, one female, commiserating over the trials of the job across maple cream sugary concoctions—sharing the table in the corner had glanced up when he’d entered. Raine had that effect. On humans _and_ on supernatural beings. On everyone, really.

“I like dogs. How’s the settlement going?”

“New case. Cheating husband. And cheating wife. Entertainingly enough, with the same person.”

“Ooh. Bet that’s not fun.”

“In fact it rather is. I’m learning interesting tips for unusual sex acts. One involving a pool table.”

“If you’re trying to shock me,” Don said, leaning on the counter, “it’s not working.” Kit, partway through today’s shift, stopped to listen; Don shooed him away with a towel. Outside, rain bounced in to clamor off the ground and dive wildly down from eaves. The world became noisy and close, coffee-hot and intimate.

“Don’t tell me you know how to do _that_ with a pool cue,” Raine said. “Imagine your customers finding out. Horror and scandal in the local coffee shop. Story at eleven.”

“What makes you think I don’t get kinky with my espresso machine after hours?”

Kit, approaching the pick-up counter with a latte, turned around and gave them an exaggeratedly horrified stare, complete with theatrical hand-to-heart. His normally frizzy brown hair was green around the edges as of last week; Don had wondered whether this was some sort of attempt at holiday solidarity, and hadn’t asked.

Raine took a sip of coffee. “You? Please. The closest you’d get would be extra cinnamon on a pumpkin spice monstrosity. You’re too solid for that.”

“You’ve never even tried my pumpkin spice monstrosity. Solid?”

“And I don’t need to. You’ve missed a corner in the left window. The top one. No decoration.”

“I hadn’t gotten to it yet. What did you mean, solid?”

“It’s a state of being,” Raine said. “Not liquid. Not gas. Here and present and thoroughly dependable. Why coffee, anyway?”

“I like coffee. And I like making people happy. And I wasn’t good enough to make a living out of the art. Why lawyering?”

“Why not,” Raine said, and took another sip of coffee; Don waited until it became apparent that this was all the answer he’d get, and then asked, “What _were_ they doing with the pool cue?”

“Nothing solid and dependable ears need to hear,” Raine said, and more customers came in, a spilling flood of winter coats and colorful scarves and requests for caramel and coconut milk and blueberry scones. By the time Don managed to get everyone served, Raine had gone.

Late at night, closing up—Kit was off studying or getting laid or whatever college students did to cope with stress; Don did not mind closing but was starting to wonder about recruiting more help, because Kit plus the second barista Annabelle, who mainly worked weekends, were not going to be enough to keep up—he thought about that adjective more.

Solid? Reliable? Was that what Raine thought?

That was not a usual description of the Frosts. Glittery, wintry, artistic: he’d heard those. Among the oldest of the Personifications; he knew that. Generally not dramatic, and he’d grant Raine that one: a family lineage that stretched back and sideways and out across the world, given existence by millennia of belief, blooming flowers and ferns for that world to appreciate. But the family heritage lay in the evanescence of winter art, gleaming and dissolving, a reminder of the cold and the ephemeral.

Don had always liked warmth. He’d always liked radiance, heat, color: the impressions of life, quick and vibrant and beckoning.

He liked the rich dark flavors of coffee, nutty and smoky and sweet and roasted, all those permutations. He liked the milky swirl of cream, the delicate traceries of a rose when he drew it in cappuccino foam, the smile in a customer’s eyes when taking a sip. He liked the heat of a mug cupped in chilly hands: vivid, real, grounded.

He liked fire-bright and cinnamon-sharp and complicated green-gold eyes, and the way Raine always managed to be kind to Kit even if not to Don himself.

He wondered why Raine had even commented on the window he’d not gotten to. Raine did not like decorations, celebrations, silly ridiculous fluff.

Going out, he skimmed fingers over glass. A tiny stormcloud burst into being, trickling ice-etched drops down the window, from the corner.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which gifts are important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How is my draft up to 23k, and not done... (actually it's like 99% done, there's probably one final sex scene... *stares at laptop*)

“I’m thinking of hiring another barista,” Don said, across the counter, making conversation.

“Ah,” Raine said. “So you’ve noticed that service has been a bit slow.”

“It has not!”

“Kit can’t be here all the time. And you’re only getting busier.”

“Yes, that’s the _point_ of a coffee-shop—”

“Everyone loves this place,” Raine said. “It’s friendly. Welcoming. Nobody being anxious about who or what they are.”

“Yes,” Don said, uncertain whether this was a critique. “That’s what I wanted. Anyone on the Registry, anyone not, anyone who just needs a break or a good pecan praline mocha. I’m thinking of reaching out to that new sandwich place down the street, so we can have more than just pastries, maybe. And if we have someone else we could be open more hours, not just the corporate traffic, not that I don’t love you guys, you’re the backbone of this place.”

“People do like sandwiches,” Raine said, almost absently. The coffee-shop was more full than usual; all the seats were taken, and Kit was busy behind the register, and Don should be busy as well, but was lingering for no good reason.

“Yes,” Don said again. “Look, sorry, I’ve got to go help take care of this rush—”

“Go,” Raine said. “I can live without your sparkling repartee. I’ve got caffeine.”

Don went. Amid dark roast and chocolate and steam, he tried to watch those slim shoulders, those pretty eyes. Raine left almost immediately, he noticed, no doubt back to intimidating opposing sides into cowed agreement and promises to behave.

The girl lurking in the doorway had night-black hair and eyes like onyx; she peeked out from under long eyelashes and offered, “I know how to make a decent espresso?”

“Sorry,” Don said, “who are you, again?”

“Oh.” She flushed silver and gold, like stars; she’d come in just before closing, dressed like the shyest escapee from a punk-rock concert, but with ancient weight in that midnight gaze. “Mr Amari said you might be looking for help? And I know I don’t have like a ton of experience but I work really hard and I don’t mind late hours and—”

“You’re a Nyx,” Don said, having figured it out. He should’ve guessed sooner. One Personification to another, and all. And the Children of Night were rare, but not that rare; he knew there were a few around Seattle. “How do you know Raine?”

She brightened up at the name, reaction clear as moonlight. “He’s the absolute best. He volunteers on Saturdays at the Spark Center, you know? Like, free legal advice and stuff? For, like, the people who need help? And he’s like really nice? I mean not like _nice_ , he’ll tell you exactly what he thinks, he’ll totally call you out if you’re lying or whatever, and he doesn’t, like, say things just to make people feel better, but that’s good, you know? And he says if we’re serious about getting jobs and being part of the world then he’ll help us.”

The Center for Assistance for Anthropomorphic Magical Integration, in theory, helped the Personifications who did not know what to do with themselves: who’d lost their places in an ever-changing world, who’d been dreamed into existence and abandoned, or who’d been born into once-powerful families but had no means of earning a living or becoming integrated into everyday society. Most humans weren’t bothered by this, as long as Personifications were properly registered and accounted for; the Center had been a joint venture across the magical and non-magical government branches, and had been affectionately nicknamed Spark after the fire elementals who’d been the first staff members.

And Raine Amari, Cupid and lawyer, volunteered there on Saturdays. And had sent a teenage embodiment of night, with those telltale eyes and those safety-pins on her punk-kid leather jacket, his way.

Don said, “What’s your name?”

“Oh.” She bit a lip, hesitated. “Ausriné. Rin. Should I not have said—”

“You said you know how to make a decent espresso,” Don said. “Show me.”

May came in with riotous explosions of color: flowers in the newly landscaped area in front of the building, wide arching blue skies, clean clear golden sun like the gleam of a newly opened treasure-chest. Ausriné and Kit and Annie got along disturbingly well, bonding over late nights and superhero television shows; the coffee-shop hummed along happily, and Don experimented with lavender, honey, rosewater, and springtime violets.

The Sunrise Children—they had different names, different traditions, but all laughed and chattered and glowed with the brilliance of the Personification of new dawns, so Don’d collectively nicknamed them for the sun—popped in and drank coffee and herbal tea, and laughed and left warmth and fluttering rainbow streamers in their wake. One of them, a shameless and adorable young man with emerald eyes and new-coin copper hair, winked at him when leaving.

Raine, around a caffeine infusion—mid-morning, as usual, a break from whatever the tangled law-office work of the day might be—commented, “You’d end up exhausted. Wouldn’t be worth it.”

“I wasn’t looking, and how do you know, anyway?” Don collected abandoned cups—the Sunrise Children did tend toward forgetful but forgivable chaos—and wiped down the counter. “As if you even like people.”

“I don’t like most people,” Raine said. “They’re reckless and clumsy and made of desires. Walking complications. Which includes humans and Personifications. And you don’t want to go there. The perky good-morning-but-all-day-long sexual stamina always sounds nice, but at some point you need to eat and sleep. And also he’s got no fashion sense. Those sandals? Honestly.”

“You can’t comment,” Don said. “You live in suits. You don’t own anything that’s not a suit.”

Raine looked down at himself. Today’s suit was dark blue, with a lighter blue shirt, and small silver knotwork cufflinks, so discreet they must’ve cost a minor fortune. The cut was good, so very good: it showed off his slender waist and long legs. “I dress like an adult. With an actual job.”

“Why a divorce lawyer, again? You’re a Cupid.”

“I don’t know,” Raine said. “Why are you a barista?”

Raine knew he owned the place. This was therefore deliberate. Don let it go.

He propped elbows on the counter, instead. “I take it back. You’re not a lawyer. You’re a cactus.”

“I’m a _what_ ,” Raine said, setting down his coffee-cup. Don considered this a success. “In what universe am I a succulent?”

“Prickly. Pointy. But softer inside. Full of water.” He had the feeling this was not helping. “Good for rescuing people when they’re lost and needing…water.”

“I don’t think you’re very good at either complimenting people or insulting them,” Raine said. “I can’t tell what that was meant to be.” But his eyes had gone softer, less spiky, almost curious. The green and gold flickered, reflective. This green was more complicated than the cheerful flirtation of the Sunrise Child, less pure but more multifaceted. Don liked the complications.

“Never mind,” he said, and slid a cup across the bar. “Try this.”

Raine regarded dark swirls with misgiving. “I don’t like sweet coffee.”

“I know.”

“I don’t like gifts.”

“It’s not a gift.”

“Then—”

“I’m experimenting. You’re helping me out. Try it.”

Raine glared at him but took a sip. Then looked surprised, and took another. “Chipotle spice?”

“And cocoa. Extra dark. I’m thinking about summer.”

“It’s only May. Your windows have spring flowers. Which are melting.”

“That happens,” Don said. “Ice. In warm weather. What do you think?”

“It doesn’t bother you?” Raine took another sip. Then licked those lips, a swipe of pink tongue that Don thoroughly failed not to watch. “That it doesn’t last.”

“No,” Don said. “It’s there for as long as it’s there.”

“But it doesn’t stay.”

“I’m not out to conquer the art world. It’s just a family talent. And it makes people smile when they see it.”

“And that’s what you want,” Raine said. “Making people smile.” He looked slightly tired, Don thought, though there wasn’t a specific reason for the thought. Something around those eyes. Resignation, perhaps, or weight. Not a slump of those shoulders, because Raine was too self-aware and too put-together for that. Something, though.

Don said, looking at those eyes, “I like people being happy. I also like cacti.”

“You’re the strangest Frost I’ve ever met,” Raine said. “Succulents and flowers. What happened to winter and ice?”

“I can make ice any time,” Don said, and put fingertips on the counter: cold rose, gleamed, faded. “What do you think of the spice level?”

“People will love it,” Raine said. “They always do. I’m sure the ray of morning sunshine with the unsubtle winking will love it too. I have to get back to work.”

“He’s too young for me,” Don said. “And he has no fashion sense. Those sandals.”

“You’re not that old,” Raine said. “I’m taking this with me.” This meant the cup, which was not one of the disposable ones.

“Bring it back,” Don said, and the door opened as the early lunch crowd came in. Raine gave him a moderately offended scowl, and left with both coffees, the everyday and the new.

The coffee-cup reappeared just before Don was due to leave. Ausriné, who’d turned out to be a model employee, was handling the closing shift, so he got to go home early; he came out from behind the bar and moved toward the door and found the cup, spotlessly clean, sitting on a table. A bar of chocolate also sat on the table: a ludicrously expensive and velvety honeycomb-laced brand, one that came from a certain luxurious shop and arrived nestled in tastefully opulent black and white wrapping.

Don liked sweet. Don liked honey and chocolate and decadence. And he’d only spent the money on that particular indulgence, from that particular shop, once or twice ever.

He picked up the chocolate, and the cup. He looked out at the sunset night, but saw no one.

His fingers, which were so often chilly, felt oddly warm.

Raine said nothing about chocolate or coffee, the next day. The coffee-shop was busy, a convention in town and hordes of costumed visitors descending for sustenance; Raine caught Don’s eye across the counter, but only took the usual cup from Kit and offered a nod and went out.

He did pause, though, by the door. The windows shimmered. Cacti and succulents, etched in ice and frost, caught the morning light.

A week after that Raine was late. Don watched the door, and worried.

“Hey,” Kit said, passing, both hands full of flavored syrups. “He’ll come in. He always does.”

“I’m not looking for him,” Don said. “I’m just…”

“Looking for him,” Kit filled in. “He’ll be here. He’s always here. Don’t worry, boss.”

“I’m not worried,” Don said.

“Right,” Kit agreed, “that’s why you’ve been standing there holding an empty mug for ten minutes,” and gave him a shoulder-bump of solidarity, going off to the back. “We like him. And we like you. We’re cheering you on.”

“You are? Who’s the we, in this scenario?”

Annie waved from the back room and contributed, “Rin, too! We totally talk about you when you’re not here!”

“Traitors,” Don said. “Stop speculating about my love life. Never mind. Go clean a blender.”

“Already did, boss.”

Don stared at the door some more. No Raine. Only sun, dazzling and unkind. Blindingly bright, against clear glass.

The lunch rush arrived. They handled it.

The lunch rush dwindled. They handled that too.

Don took a breath. Made himself a cardamom and honey latte. Made himself drink it slowly.

The door opened. Raine came in.

Don shoved the latte onto the counter and dove that way. “Are you okay?”

“Me? I’m fine.” He didn’t look fine. Still lovely, but tired, even pale: those high cheekbones stood out in sharper relief, and even the red-gilt curls seemed messier, as if he’d run hands through them. He’d loosened his tie, too: violet today, which shouldn’t’ve worked with that watercolor-fire hair but did. “Only annoyed at the universe. Were you honestly worried about me?”

“I still am,” Don said, and got him coffee, deep and dark as a starless night. “You look—”

“Like an impressively successful lawyer who is in fact very good at my job?” Raine took the coffee and stared into it as if searching for an oracle. “Most days I am.”

“What happened?”

“Clients requesting someone else. Taking me off a case. It happens.” Raine waved a hand. “Sometimes people don’t trust a Cupid. Thinking I’ll get them to fall back in love with each other, or that I’ll use my secret magical gifts to manipulate them, or something else equally moronic. I wouldn’t if I could, and I can’t.”

“But you’re brilliant,” Don protested. “Everyone says you are. When other people from your office come in—and you were even on the news, that time, with the celebrity—”

“I know I’m good at what I do,” Raine said to the coffee. This was a statement of fact, not precisely arrogance. “It has nothing to do with that.”

“People are idiots,” Don said, with feeling.

Raine glanced up; their eyes met. “You don’t get to say that.”

“I don’t? Why not? Anyone who takes you off a case is making a mistake.”

“I mean,” Raine said, “that’s not you. You, with the flowers, and the cacti in the windows, and remembering everyone’s coffee orders. You make people smile. You don’t call people idiots. That’s me.”

“You,” Don said, elbows on the bar, squared up and certain about this, “volunteer at Spark. You help people. You’re a good lawyer because you help people. You want them to be happy, whatever that means for them, even when that means separating. You bought me chocolate.”

“I told you I don’t like gifts,” Raine said. “You wouldn’t let me pay for the coffee.”

“You knew I like honeycomb.”

“That’s just paying attention.”

“I’m not charging you for today’s, either.”

“You can’t do that,” Raine said, with something like genuine dismay. “That’s not fair. Or good business sense.”

“I can afford it,” Don said, “and you could use it. Want a lemon tart? They’re good. Not too sweet. You know, tart.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because,” Don explained, “I like making people smile,” and got out a lemon tart.

Raine, on the verge of protesting, appeared to give up and resign himself to being fed, but said, “Is annoying me also the same as getting me to smile?”

“I don’t know,” Don said. “Is it?”

This time Raine laughed, swift and startled: like wildflowers opening up unexpectedly in the desert after a storm. He ate the tart before leaving.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which jeans and boots are significant, and spreadsheets are a form of flirtation.

Don did not know that much about Cupids. More accurately, he knew what everyone knew: there were a lot of them, they mostly looked like anyone else—no tiny wings or bow-and-arrow equipment necessary—and they tended to inspire feelings of pink-hued and ephemeral affection. They generally had a sixth sense about other people’s desires and passions, primarily but not exclusively romantic. The stereotypes said they liked happy endings and cried at romantic comedies and often had red hair.

Raine had red hair—strawberry-gold hair, like the moment before dawn—and felt warm to Don’s magical senses, a deep thrumming sort of warmth like banked fires and knitted blankets.

Don at this point tried to picture Raine crying over a sappy romantic comedy film and failed comprehensively. Complete blank. No such imagining.

Sitting on his sofa, gazing at take-out Thai containers, he stopped seeing peanut sauce and instead saw Raine’s eyes, that quick green cleverness interlaced with gold like new leaves, streaking light through the forests. Raine had laughed along with him, and the sharp edges had for a moment become relaxed, wry and inviting; that person, the one who cared so deeply and guarded independence so fiercely, was someone Don wanted to know.

He wanted to ask whether Raine liked Thai food. He wanted to find out what places Raine liked in the city, several months in, and if they could go and find a secondhand bookshop or a local craft brewery together, or go out hiking in sunny weather, maybe along the coast or up into the mountains, where the views stretched out endless and sublime. He did not know whether Raine liked hiking, or books, or breweries.

He pictured those neat long-fingered hands, eloquent around a briefcase or a coffee-cup; he pictured that tidy contained competence, buttoned up in yesterday’s grey suit, and then he wondered what Raine would look like if all that tidiness ever let go, disheveled and abandoned and careless of appearances, lost in pleasure.

That loosened tie had been a hint. Pale skin, and the slender column of that throat. Violet in the tie, color glowing against that fairness. Don’s thoughts drifted, briefly: uses for ties, Raine’s elegant wrists, a kiss pressed into that throat, a scrape of beard and teeth right where the collar would cover it up…still polished and tidy on the outside, but they’d know, they’d know the mark was there, desire and deliciousness in a memento just for two…

Those were not appropriate thoughts.

He scooped up and ate a piece of chicken, with emphasis.

The take-out containers smirked.

He flipped on the television. He skimmed through action movies, a science-fiction film, some sort of baking contest. One of the contestants was making lemon tarts. He left that one on.

He had the day off the next day, but found himself wandering over to Brewed mid-morning anyway. Kit pointed a latte accusingly in his direction. “No! Go home! You left me in charge!”

“I’m not here to do work,” Don objected, holding up hands. “I’m just…here.”

“Oh,” Kit said. “ _Oh_. It is about that time of morning, isn’t it? Oh, that’s super-cute.”

“Don’t you have a girlfriend of your own?”

“I have a girlfriend _and_ a boyfriend,” Kit said. “We’re all completely happy, thanks for asking. Hey, he’s here.”

Don turned toward the door, which had not in fact opened.

“Ha,” Kit said, and got out milk. “Knew you’d look.”

“Why haven’t I fired you?”

“Because you love me and I’m the best at actually working out everyone’s scheduled shifts and coordinating hours and times off, which you hate doing. Hey, he really is here this time, seriously.”

“I seriously will fire you.”

“No you won’t,” Kit said. “And also, ooh, pretty.”

Don refused to look. “That door didn’t even open.”

“Yes it did,” said Raine’s voice from behind him. “You were talking. Aren’t you off today?”

“I’m—” Don had spun around while starting this answer, and abruptly lost all power of speech.

“Say anything at all and I’ll find a way to sue you,” Raine said. “The office decided it was a mandatory casual Friday. Some sort of teambuilding exercise. Apparently rolling up my sleeves was insufficiently casual, and I got told to go home and change.”

“You,” Don said.

Those were definitely jeans. They were leg-hugging and black. They disappeared into black boots that might’ve been an advertisement for an exclusive backstage rock concert or, just possibly, an equally exclusive leather-straps-and-buckles sex club. The shirt was dark blue, still neatly buttoned and silky in the way that only horrifically expensive fabric could be, but Raine had rolled up the sleeves and not worn a tie and had scattered constellations of golden freckles over bare arms, and he also had something that looked like a tattoo peeking out along one forearm, the left one, with a curl of red and black among the freckle-stars, and Don’s higher brain functions gave up entirely.

“I _like_ suits,” Raine muttered. “I like being professional at the office. I don’t do casual.”

“What about when you’re not at the office?” Don said before he could stop himself.

Raine gave him a look with a lot of spikes under it. “It was this or my triathlon training gear. Which I’m starting to think I should’ve gone with instead. Will you stop staring?”

The jeans demanded staring. Raine had fantastic thighs. Fantastic everything, really. Don wanted to peel him out of clothing and lick all the freckles and find out whether they tasted like sun.

He cleared his throat. “Triathlons?” That made sense. Athletic. The legs. No, he should stop looking at the legs. But then he ended up looking at the bare forearms and the tattoo and Raine’s slim purple belt and, oh, a heavy watch with a thick leather strap, which looked way too much like a wrist cuff, curling darkly over gilded freckles.

“I need to get back to training properly—it’s been a while since the last one—but yes.” Raine put that head on one side. “Okay, this is starting to feel weird, just so you know. Did I miss a button or something? Or get ink from a pen somewhere?”

“No,” Don said weakly. “You’re…fine. I mean you look fine. I mean everything’s fine!”

“Hmm.” Raine nodded at Kit, who was handing over coffee. “Thanks.”

“I love your belt,” Kit said. “And Don likes those jeans on you.”

“You’re definitely fired,” Don hissed.

“No he’s not,” Raine said. “I like him. And he’s got good taste; it’s a Marc Hart belt. I have the red one, too. I should be heading up to astonish my colleagues with the fact that I own a pair of jeans. Kit, tell your boss to go home and enjoy his day off.”

“Go home and enjoy your day off,” Kit said promptly. “Raine, can I talk to you about fashion sometime? Please? Accessories? Next season’s trends?”

“I don’t do spontaneous bonding, either,” Raine said. “Though I might make an exception. Since you have decent taste.”

“He has green hair,” Don said. “And a biology test to study for.”

“Don might look good in red,” Kit said. “And maybe if he shaved.”

They regarded him for a second in matching evaluative silence: brown human eyes and gold-flecked green.

Don shifted weight and grumbled, “I own shirts that are red.”

“And flannel,” Kit observed.

“I don’t mind the beard,” Raine said, and both of them looked at him. He consumed a sip of coffee, as if he hadn’t just knocked Don’s world sideways with a half-compliment, and proceeded to finish the job with, “Sometimes I can be into the cuddly mountain man look. Depends on the man in question.”

The pause suggested a response, but Don could think of literally zero words; Raine glanced away, shrugged one shoulder, and said, “Enjoy your day off, then,” and vanished out the door. The jeans looked equally good from behind.

Don did try to talk, too late and too desperate. Sounds that weren’t syllables came out.

“Super-cute,” Kit said happily, and went to help another regular who’d come in for a large iced coffee.

Summer bounced in, reflecting aureate from office buildings and bridges and the blue of the Pacific Ocean. Don drew fireworks, sparkles, explosions of ice for the windows, and put his personal talents to work keeping the coffee shop cool and inviting. Brewed had a reputation for ice-cold summer drinks, and he was not above employing his heritage for it.

He was aware that a certain strain of thought among Personifications would’ve considered this beneath him. He’d mentally shrugged and ignored that whole argument a long time ago.

Raine had not turned up in jeans again. In fact, Raine had barely turned up at all for two weeks after the jeans incident: present, dropping by but coming and going so quietly that once or twice Don’d only spotted him at the last possible second. This had become a concern, but right as it had, Raine had suddenly reappeared and said, “The windows look nice,” an unprompted sentence of praise which’d caused the coffee to slip out of Don’s hand.

Raine had even apologized and offered to come around and help clean up. Don, flustered, had stumbled through a demurral. Raine had hesitated, but finally left.

He’d left a tip big enough to pay for the orders of everyone in the room. Don didn’t quite understand this gesture, though he guessed it was another sort of apology.

He wasn’t used to Raine being apologetic. Or complimentary. Or quiet. This was unnerving.

At the moment he was in the back, swearing at an email from a supplier; prices were going up, or that was the general gist of it, but the spreadsheet they’d sent made no sense and he’d never been great with dense inscrutable jargon or massive clouds of numbers. He drummed fingers on his desk, realized he was leaving tiny ice crystals, made himself stop.

Annabelle stuck her head in. “Boss? We’re out of lids for the giant to-go size again.”

Don muttered unrepeatable words about lids and suppliers. “I’ll order more.”

Annie vanished and came back. “Boss?”

“Not the lids again—”

“Your hot boyfriend’s here.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!”

“He’s not coming here every day for me and Kit and Rin, boss.”

“He comes in for coffee. We make coffee.” And, lately, that seemed to be all Raine wanted. Don hadn’t realized how easily those quicksilver spiky conversations had fit into his day. Part of the routine. Stable.

Solid, he thought. Dependable. Unexciting and dull. Of course I’m not anything he wants. Of course not.

“You don’t want to go say hi?”

“I’m working. And so are you, right?”

“Wow, touchy,” Annie observed, and ducked away.

Don stared at the spreadsheet some more. It stared defiantly back and refused to make any more sense.

The door opened again. He sighed and said, “I said I was busy, and I know you’re trying to help but—” and then saw who’d come in, and stopped.

“I am trying to help, as it happens.” Raine came over and sat on the edge of his desk, ignoring the single battered other chair. “I realize that’s not something I do enough. I’m working on it.”

“You are?” Don gulped. Raine was very very close. Dressed in slim-fit navy pinstripes today. Hair like sunset roses against the blue. Eyes green and gold and serious. A vague scent of cinnamon and vanilla sugar wafted through the air.

“Well, I’m making an effort. For instance, I’m not saying anything about the state of your office.”

Don gazed around. There wasn’t even room for much of a disaster to happen, though he did concede the papers on the table and the jacket he’d forgotten yesterday and the two mugs that should’ve gone back out to be washed. “I think saying that you’re not saying anything sort of negates the not saying it.”

“I’m new to this whole being nice concept. Give me some time. Including five minutes with cleaning supplies and your desk. Is that plant dead?”

“It’s…hibernating. Why are you being nice to me?”

Raine chose to ignore this question. “Your depressingly perky minion said you were having difficulty with contract negotiations and price estimates. Can I look at that?”

“Um,” Don said, keeping one hand on his laptop. “Why, again?”

“I’m good at sorting things out. I promise not to make fun of your thunder-god pornography collection.”

“I don’t have thunder-god pornography!”

“What kind do you have, then? It’s a joke. I didn’t mean it. Not about the pornography part. Would you trust me to help, please?”

The please landed like an explosion of marshmallow, leaving Don’s words stuck and blankly white and bewildered, and leaving his heart bewildered and strangely breathless too, struck by sweetness.

He nudged the laptop that way, speechless. Raine picked it up. “What on earth…”

“Yeah.”

“This is awful. Are they deliberately trying to confuse you? I’m angry just looking at it.”

“Does it make _any_ sense?”

“Well…maybe. If this estimate is tied to that column…then that would be _that_ …oh, hang on, I see what they did with those numbers. Here, I’ll clean this up…” He was tapping away while talking, eyes intent; Don felt a fantastic shiver run down his spine, because Raine being intent and focused and capable was waking up every one of those desires he’d been squashing. Raine sitting on his desk, suit-fabric pulled taut over one thigh, close enough to touch, was not making this easier.

“Does this make more sense?” Raine set down the laptop and slid it Don’s way. “I’ve simplified and made you a new spreadsheet and properly labeled those columns.”

“This is amazingly better. _Incredibly_ better. Actually readable. Thank you.” He looked up in time to catch Raine’s glance darting away: not quite looking at him. He said, intrigued, “How’d you even do that?”

“Law school. I’m not only good at domestic partnerships and separations. I’m excellent at financial records and transactions. Want me to answer that email? They’re being purposefully obscure and it’s exasperating me, so I want to scare them on your behalf.”

“You can do whatever you want, as long as I still get a delivery next month.” Don swiveled the laptop back that way. “Thanks again. I owe you something for free. Whatever you want.”

“You gave me a tart once,” Raine said. “We’re even. And this is fun. Can I just systematize all your records, in here?”

“If it’s making you happy,” Don said doubtfully.

“Go make something too sweet with blueberries and chocolate or whatever it is you want to experiment with today,” Raine said, absorbed in spreadsheets. “You like experimenting. You get excited when people like your inventions. I’ll take care of this.”

Don gazed at him for a minute, and then went out, not wanting to hover. They weren’t busy, and he contemplated iced coffee, and got out blueberry and ginger syrups and got to work.

The first two attempts came out too sweet. He gave them away—people seemed delighted—and adjusted measurements. More ginger. More sharpness, along with heady dark roast and the hint of fruit. A final brush of cold from his hands for the iced version.

He did like this: creating, playing with flavors, making something new. He liked combinations and puzzle-solving: finding something that someone would like.

He came back in and set down the newest cup. Raine looked up. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves; the hint of tattoo beckoned, just visible in crimson and jet along that forearm. He’d also corralled the papers on the desk into a cleanly-edged stack.

“Just try it,” Don said, over the flutter of wings in his chest. “If you don’t like it I’ll drink it.”

“I told you not to,” Raine said. “I told you, this is fun for me.”

“Because you’re the weirdest Cupid ever. Anyway, you basically ordered me to do this, so it’s your fault.”

Raine gave him a look that said this logic had not worked, but took the iced coffee. “Oh. That’s…not bad.”

“You don’t have to say that if it isn’t.”

“I like ginger,” Raine said. “I’m keeping it. I don’t have a meeting scheduled for…another hour. I can get this done by then.”

“You know,” Don said, “I thought maybe—I mean, you were kind of not talking to me for a while and I thought—if I did anything, if I said anything, I should apologize for—I thought maybe you were angry with me.”

“Why would I be angry with you?” Raine said, typing something onehanded, other hand curled protectively around coffee.

“I don’t know?”

“I’m not. Don’t give it any more thought.”

“But,” Don said. The hand holding the coffee was causing feelings, many and butterfly-winged, in his stomach. Raine liked something he’d made. “You’re here and being…nice.”

“It can’t be that unusual for you.” Raine wasn’t looking up. “People are nice to you. Around you. This place. You make people want to be nice. Even your minions love you. I’m the only one who ever _isn’t_ nice to you.”

“Except you are.”

“I’m turning over some sort of new leaf. Unlike your plant. How does that not depress you?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Don said truthfully. “I think Annie brought it in and forgot about it. Do you have plants?”

“I have rosemary,” Raine said. “And basil, and sage. I have useful plants. For cooking. This will get done faster without you interrupting me.”

“So it’s a very small new leaf.”

“Still unfurling. Go invent something else.”

“I’m going,” Don agreed, and headed for the door. As he went out, he heard Raine say, very quietly, “You were smiling when you came in. Whatever you were doing, you should do it more.”

Raine had noticed him smiling. Raine wanted him to be happy. That fluttery feeling expanded. Lots of swoops and sweeps. That funny warmth in fingers and chest and toes, billowing. He could come up with a hundred new flavors. A thousand. He could get started right now.

Raine slipped out of the office about forty-five minutes later, jacket back on, crisp and fashionable. He’d brought out all the cups, not only his own, and Annie whisked by to grab them. He was also smiling, a small private sort of smile, not an ironic glint or a performance. Almost wistful, Don thought. Almost painful, but in a way that made those lips quirk up: a thought that would be kept close even if the edges cut.

“Here,” he said. “I made you another one. To take to your meeting.”

Raine smiled more, and the gold flecks danced in those eyes, though for some reason they seemed a tiny bit pensive. Not sad, but contemplative. Melancholy in the rainforests, through the waltz of color. “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Hey,” Don said. “We’re sort of…we’re friends, right? I mean, you’ve just organized my whole life.”

“Yes,” Raine said. “Yes, we’re sort of friends.” When he stepped out the door, summer sun fell down across his hair, his shoulders, his back, like a cloak of gold.

Raine’s organizational system was ruthlessly precise, impressively easy to follow, and mildly terrifying. Don’s laptop files had never been so clearly labeled. The organization had even extended to the ancient physical filing cabinet in the corner, with the paper copies of things that had or hadn’t been digitized. Raine had employed dividers and labels that had definitely not existed in the office and must’ve come from the briefcase.

Don wondered, hand on the filing cabinet, both of them astonished at this change in their lives, what Raine’s apartment or house looked like. Spotlessly clean, he guessed. Utilitarian. But with one or two little glimpses of color: that love of fashion, the triathlon gear, the emerald friendliness of kitchen herbs.

Three days later, he walked into the office to discover a very tiny cactus in a pot, perched on the corner of his desk. The extremely zombified predecessor had miraculously departed the room.

He stuck his head back out. “Annie? Cactus?”

“Not mine,” Annie said. “And we’re not supposed to tell you Raine came by while Rin was working the night shift last night, either. He said not to, so I’m not telling you.”

“Oh,” Don said.

He looked at the cactus. It bristled merrily at him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they might maybe possibly finally agree to go on a date!

Raine got nearly flattened under a heavy caseload throughout August and September, including an impassioned plea to come in and consult with his old firm in Los Angeles. He did continue to stop by mid-morning for caffeine, but he looked harried and distracted, and took a lot of phone calls. He said he couldn’t talk much about the case, but it was a high-profile one involving celebrities and drugs and scandals and a vicious divorce, which was the bit he’d been asked to help with, and which needed gentle handling. Don nodded, and made him new drinks: bitter and cocoa-heavy, whiskey syrup infused, blood orange and more ginger, and once laced with prickly pear flavor and flecked with edible gold.

Raine smiled at that last one, and turned the smile his direction, a moment of pure pleasure that left Don dizzy with the sharing of it.

In October, with pumpkins sprouting in unlikely places—shop windows, street corners, designs on bags and purses—and with the lush red-brown symphony of leaves in the wind, Don experimented with nutmeg, chocolate and spiced pears, coffee and plums. He’d managed a sort of spiced rum—nonalcoholic, though he wanted to try the alcoholic version too—infusion into a mocha, and he’d struck up a partnership with one of his favorite local breweries, and they were collaborating on a coffee stout; he saw Raine every day, even if for only a few moments, and the office cactus was thriving.

He was happy, for the definition of happy that involved his heart skipping a beat or two every time Raine smiled.

They were friends. They’d said so. That was good.

He ran hands over the windows and let ice cobwebs and flying witches and leaping cats shimmer into life, as he imagined them. He wondered what Raine would say, and if those green eyes would be wryly amused, or sarcastic, or strangely quiet, the way they still got sometimes. Don did not know how to ask about this.

Luke, the younger and arguably cuter of the two human brothers who owned the brewery, came by the coffee-shop more and more frequently. At first this was work, though fun work: discussing flavor profiles, cold brew notes, the merits of aging in different barrels. Luke was eager and knowledgeable and passionate about the craft of beer, and Don liked talking to him; Luke started coming by more and more frequently, talking and gesturing and rumpling up his own white-blond hair in excitement; he sometimes leaned closer, let his hands touch Don’s shoulders, arms, a thigh if they sat close enough.

Don, who was not oblivious, was flattered but not interested. Luke might’ve been his type—big blue eyes, jawline that enticing mix of pretty and masculine, all enthusiasm and vibrant energy—but the spark just wasn’t there.

Something missing. Something not right. Too happy, too enthusiastic. Not a cynical or complicated atom in that golden-retriever soul. Too quick to uncritically love whatever suggestions Don made, whatever art might be sketched in frosty morning air, whatever drinks might be offered.

Raine came in one cloudy grey morning at his standard time, looking tired but determined in the way that was recently also standard; he glanced Don’s way and discovered Luke there, halfway through a sentence that ended, “…and of course you’re totally coming to that craft beer festival in December, I’d love it if you came with me, that’ll be so much fun!”

Raine’s next step held a fleeting catch in the middle. Don only noticed because he’d already been looking that way, knowing it was about the right time, half-listening to Luke; but by the time Raine came up to the bar no emotions were visible in green eyes at all.

“Morning,” Don said, handing over coffee. “This one should have some macadamia nut flavor, in the actual roasted beans, I mean, I didn’t even put anything in it.”

“Thanks,” Raine said.

“Oh, hi,” Luke said. “You’re Raine, right? I got it from the hair. You’re a Cupid but like not really a Cupid. Don’s talked about you. He says you’re like a wizard with organization and you helped him out around here. Maybe we should get you to come over to the brewery. We could use something like that.”

“I’m a lawyer,” Raine said, “not a local business magic elixir. And I’m busy.”

“Well, maybe when you’re not.” Luke did not seem bothered by this. “Obviously all the big lawyer stuff’s massively important. I get it. I totally could’ve been a lawyer, too, you know, except I get bored reading books. I could do the cool parts like making speeches to juries, though. Except I’d have to wear a suit. Which is way too serious. Do you always have to wear a suit?”

“I usually do,” Raine said. “When I’m doing big lawyer stuff.” Outside the clouds burst and rattled. Drops bounced like bones off pavements and building-eaves.

“So you’re in, right?” Luke said to Don. He’d put a hand out, and now rested it on Don’s arm. “And you can maybe even do some of your awesome ice art for our booth. Like a demonstration.” He glanced over at Raine. “You know he’s a Frost, right? What am I saying, of course you do, you two are friends. You know he did all that, in the windows? It’s super-cool.”

“Ice frequently is.” Raine eased a step away.

“Ice is what?”

Raine did not quite sigh. “Cool. As you said.”

“Oh!” Luke beamed at him. “Dude! Too funny. Don didn’t tell me you were funny. We should hang out. You could stop by the beer festival and say hi to us.”

“I’m also busy that day.”

“Oh, never mind.” Luke frowned, confused. “Wait, you don’t know what day it is.”

“I’m busy most days,” Raine said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Hey,” Don said. “What do you think of that one? It’s supposed to also have pecan and vanilla notes. And, um, I’m closing tonight, so I’ll be here until one, if you’re, y’know, working late again.”

“It’s good,” Raine said, though Don couldn’t recall him taking a sip. “And I won’t be working in the office. I need to meet with someone, and they’re naming the location. So don’t expect me to stop by.”

Don felt his eyebrows doing the anxious tugging-together that Kit liked to mock. “You’re meeting someone late at night? Someplace you don’t know?”

“I do occasionally meet with witnesses,” Raine said. “And this one’s…delicate. Confidential. I might not be a real Cupid, but I am a decent lawyer. I can handle a meeting.”

“Will you be here tomorrow?”

“I thought I would be.” Raine glanced at Luke. “You may be somewhat preoccupied, though. I don’t have to drop in every day. It might even be best if I don’t. It’s time away from work, and they need me.”

“I could come see you,” Don tried. “Delivery. No charge.” The morning had plunged headlong over a cliff, and he did not know how to stop the fall.

“I don’t like gifts,” Raine said. “I do like the windows. Though the ghost in the left one is missing an eye, unless you’ve done that on purpose. Thank you for the coffee. It’s very nice.”

“Bye!” Luke said cheerily. “Good luck with the case!”

Raine tilted the cup at him and left, wrapped up in a thick grey coat and a layer of quiet. The quiet got splintered by the sound of the storm when he opened the door, but then reformed.

“He seems nice,” Luke said. “Stressed, but, y’know. I would be too. And way cute, if you’re into the whole suit-wearing successful rich dude thing. I’m not really. Are you sure he’s a Cupid? He doesn’t act like one. Not that I’ve ever met one. But maybe I still haven’t.”

“He’s a Cupid,” Don said. “You’d feel it. If you had the right senses.” He wanted to run that way. He wanted to catch Raine’s hand, out in the pouring silvery ribbons of water, and hold on, the way he should have. He wanted to say—

To say what? To apologize? He wasn’t sure an apology was necessary. An explanation, though. Words. Something. Anything.

“I like your one-eyed ghost,” Luke said. “I thought you did it on purpose. More spooky. So, beer festival?”

“Maybe,” Don said. Raine would be out somewhere tonight, doing something delicate, doing something for a client. The drumming of drops outside echoed in his veins, in anxious pulse-beats. But there wasn’t anything he could do. No coffee flavors that could keep someone safe. He didn’t even have Raine’s phone number. Why didn’t he? “I don’t know. We’ll see.”

“Talk to me about marshmallow notes,” Luke said, demonstrating an uncharacteristic level of tact in subject-changing. “I like sweetness, and so do you, but is it going to be too much with the vanilla?”

“Um,” Don said, and returned his brain to flavors and teamwork: something he could solve. “Let’s try it and find out.”

Raine did come in the next day after all, later than usual though only by about ten minutes. He was wearing the same grey coat, and looked even more tired, as if he’d not slept; but he also looked satisfied, as if something had gone his way.

Don, who’d been trying to see through the door and the storm and the world, trying to reach out with nonexistent telepathic powers and find him, breathed out and sagged against the counter momentarily. “You’re here.”

“I’m here.” Raine waited while two chattering elderly ladies, who appeared to be having a conversation about the relative size of something that involved complex hand gestures, came up and ordered. Kit took over; Don moved to one side and resisted the impulse to grab Raine and throw arms around him and check for hidden injuries.

Instead he scraped out, “Everything go okay?” and hoped his Cupid couldn’t hear the thumping of his heart.

His Cupid. As if.

“Everything went perfectly well.” Raine, despite the visible exhaustion of someone who’d been up all or most of the night, radiated smugness. “And the person I needed to talk to is somewhere safe. I can’t tell you details, but you know I’m working on the civil side of things, and she’s trying very desperately to leave this marriage, and it’s so ugly, but I think we’re on the way to getting it worked out.”

“And you’ll do whatever you can to set her free,” Don said. “Drink this. Coffee. Your usual. And a vanilla bean scone. Two of them.”

“Stop,” Raine said. “I don’t—”

“You don’t like gifts,” Don said. “Because you worry about it, don’t you? The Cupid reputation. If people want to give you things. Infatuation. Accidental influence.” This was a shot in the not quite dark; he’d seen Raine’s split-second expression when Luke had blithely babbled about him not being a real Cupid.

“I like to think,” Raine said, “I’m unapproachable enough for no one to try. Except you do. You always do.”

“I know why you’re a lawyer,” Don said. “It’s not because you’re not a good Cupid. It’s because you are.”

Raine, gazing at him over coffee-scented steam, said nothing; but the green of those eyes changed: recognition, gold and weary.

“You believe in happy endings,” Don said. “Whatever that means for the people in question. Sometimes people are better off apart. Sometimes they reconcile. Sometimes they love their children or their pets. You do what you do because you can tell where the love is or isn’t, and you try to find the best answer. Don’t you.” It wasn’t a question. Not now.

“I try,” Raine said. “Sometimes it even works out. Maybe most times. Not every time. How’s Luke?”

“Who? Oh. That’s not—he’s not—we aren’t—”

“Too bad,” Raine said into the coffee-cup. “He’s precious. Young. Harmless. Likes your frost art. You could do worse.”

“We’re working together,” Don said. “That’s all.” Facing silent skepticism, he elaborated, “He’d like more. But I wouldn’t. He’s not…that’s not what I want.”

“Oh,” Raine said, and took a sip. When he looked back up his expression was perfectly calm, though his eyes were brighter, even more gold. “Would you want to tell me about what you’re working on? I won’t know all your technical recipe-related terms, but you might need my advice about collaboration and contracts and profit sharing.”

“Absolutely,” Don said, with more enthusiasm than he probably should, and spent the next fifteen minutes babbling about coffee stouts and bourbon-barrel aging, until Raine had to go back to the office.

He took a new drink along, one Don had just made, with hints of smoke and toffee and brown sugar. Not overly sweet, just enough to be interesting, because that was a puzzle and a delight as well: figuring out what might make those eyes light up and want more.

Halloween morning dawned orange and blue and brown, a Wednesday autumn morning, a rustling sky morning even among city buildings and thin leafless trees and office glass. Raine came in wearing grey, with a russet-striped scarf; Don’s heart performed its customary skip, spotting him. “How’s everything going?”

“Good.” Raine hesitated, uncharacteristically cautious over choosing words. “We’re just about done. And it’s…good, I think. But I do have to tell you I won’t be here tomorrow. Maybe not Friday, either.”

“You won’t?”

“Meetings all day. Not my office. Neutral ground, as it were. I need to be there, and I won’t have a chance to leave.”

“Oh. That’s…I mean, yeah. Sure. I know it’s important.”

“You’re not here tomorrow night, are you?”

“Only in the morning. I gave the kids tonight off, so I’m closing up, and they’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Ah.” Raine hesitated again. “Then…I’ll see you…when is the next time I see you? Saturday morning?”

“Yeah—oh, no, wait. I’m heading over to the brewery. I’ll be there all day. Working on the festival collaboration.”

“Oh,” Raine said.

“Working on things with Luke _and_ Ian, I mean.” He felt that this clarification was necessary: both brothers. Not any sort of date. From Raine’s expression, he knew, inarguably knew, that it’d instead landed as _I’m getting to know his family_. He flailed, “Will you at least stop by and say hi on Sunday?”

“At least—” Raine stopped the echo there, and finished, “If I can,” which seemed like an odd choice of phrasing, but it was a yes, so Don didn’t push. “It might be later in the day.”

“I’ll be off around four.” He nearly didn’t continue, but the question was on the tip of his tongue: natural, as if it wanted to be there. “Would you, I don’t know, want to grab late lunch, early dinner, something? How do you feel about Indian?”

“I like spice,” Raine said. “I could…do you want me to meet you here? Or there? Or…whatever’s easiest for you?” For someone who’d once intimidated Don’s filing system into submission, he seemed surprisingly uncertain, asking.

“Meet me here,” Don offered. This might have the comfort of familiarity. “Hey, want to give me your phone number? Or I can give you mine? In case you’re running late or something?”

Raine took out his phone and regarded the screen as if never having seen it before. “…yes? I don’t plan to be late. I’m insulted that you’ve suggested it.”

“No you’re not,” Don said. “You just want to be. Prickly. Cactus.”

“And you’re a sunflower,” Raine said, handing over his phone. “Give me your number.”

Don did. A second later a tiny emoji cactus popped up on his own phone: Raine had sent it.

“I like it,” Don said.

“You would.”

“Yeah,” Don said. “I would.”

The pause extended, pink-hued and honest.

“Don—” Raine finally said, just as Don started, “Would you—”

“Sorry, go ahead—”

“No, never mind—”

“It’s not important.” Raine took a sip of coffee—still plain and black, but Don had been saving some of the more exotic smoky beans, and Raine’s eyes danced in appreciation—and added, “By the way, give that woman next in line the wrong drink.”

“What? Why?”

“Call it a feeling.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“Trust me.”

“I feel like I’m going to regret this,” Don said, but dutifully went to intercept Kit. “Okay, why?”

“Just wait.”

They waited. The woman—round, black-haired, cheerful under a pink polka-dotted scarf—came back up to the counter with an apologetic expression. She arrived just in time to encounter one of Don’s regulars, the skinny bespectacled half-dryad Eloise. Eloise, who taught ecology at the local university and was working on a book about the local coastal ecosystem, had plainly been looking for her wayward gingerbread latte; the pretty new customer handed it over and complimented Eloise’s tortoiseshell glasses. Eloise, who Don had seen cope with distraught undergraduates and missing manuscript pages without any hint of becoming ruffled, actually blushed.

Don said, “You did not just—”

“I did nothing.” Raine waved a hand. “You’d’ve noticed if I had.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No. That part’s just making room for the story. Giving it space to happen.” They both watched Eloise bashfully move a stack of papers so her new companion could sit down. Fingertips brushed, across a pen and a mug. Raine smiled a fraction. “I used to think I hated that. The Cupid instinct.”

“But not anymore?”

“I don’t do it much. That one was strong, though. They’ll be good together.” The smile tipped sideways, wry and resigned. “Not everyone is. Or some people are, but only temporarily. Who they need, and when, and for how long. If it’s the right time, and right for what, exactly. I used to try not to know at all. I didn’t want to.”

“And then you decided to help people.” Don wanted to hug him. Wanted to dive over the counter and put both arms around those worn-out designer-clad shoulders, to fight the self-dismissal in that voice. “And you just helped them find each other.”

“Every once in a while. Only if I’m very sure.” Raine did not quite make eye contact. Almost under his breath, added, “I didn’t sleep with her. My client, I mean. Back in LA. Whatever celebrity rumors you might’ve heard. If you even did.”

“What,” Don said, momentarily thrown by this topic switch, and then, “No, of course not. I know you didn’t.”

Raine stared at him. “You do?”

“Well, yeah. You wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh,” Raine said, behind a sip of coffee that seemed to be more a shield for emotion than anything else. “Oh. Thanks. I need to get back to work. So I’m not late.”

“Go on,” Don agreed, and watched him leave: a slim stripe of grey and red against sapphire skies and slate-slab office buildings, cradling coffee in one hand.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they have ALL the sex. And things are good. Mostly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did promise all the sex, right? Right. Also...sorry about the ending...I'll fix it! I promise! Happy endings for everyone!
> 
> Also, I did not mean this to be a 10k chapter of basically 99% porn. It just, er, came out that way.

Thunderstorms drenched that Sunday morning, leaving streets puddled and shiny, umbrellas soggy and dripping. Don forced himself not to stare at the clock, the door, the clock again. Raine had said he’d be there. Not late.

Don had meant to dress up—Raine liked style, right?—but couldn’t find anything that he thought would be good enough, and then the weather had required layers and protection against splashes, and he did have to pour coffee, and Raine _had_ mentioned liking cuddly mountain men sometimes, and Don had given up and thrown on jeans and boots and a red Henley under his favorite brown jacket.

Raine had also mentioned that Don might possibly look good in red. At least it wasn’t flannel. He _did_ own shirts that weren’t.

He’d tidied up the beard but not totally shaved. He liked it; Raine maybe kind of liked it. Judging from comments.

He caught himself trying to check his reflection, between customers, in various shiny surfaces. He told himself sternly to stop. Not like the tall brown scruffiness was going to get better.

The storm dwindled down into mist, foggy and damp.

Raine appeared at Brewed at precisely four o’clock, looking tired but spectacular, and Don tripped over nothing at all on the floor behind the counter. Rin, also arriving for the night shift, had become relaxed enough to giggle at this, though she hid it behind a hand.

“Hi,” Raine said, and ran a hand through his hair, shaking off the mist. “Good weather for coffee, obviously.”

The place had been bustling all day. Lots of bodies. Lots of heat. Refuge from the weather in question.

Despite all those other bodies, Don couldn’t not gaze at his Cupid. Who’d come in wearing that fitted grey coat, stylish and sleek, but also jeans again, dark blue this time and just as clinging as the last pair, plus trendy grey ankle boots that probably had some complicated fashion-related name and a designer label on top of that.

Don drank him in, head to toes: the boots, the ankles, the legs, the slim waist, that sunrise hair.

“Would you stop,” Raine said. “I’m all wet.”

Don spluttered, inarticulate.

“Really?” Raine raised one eyebrow, with perfect devastating effect. “Well. Fine, then. Feel free to imagine it.”

Don wrestled with the wild impulse to hide behind his counter, and decided to face embarrassment head on. As it were. “Just remember you told me to.”

This time Raine paused as if evaluating possible responses. He settled on, “I’d think you’d do the opposite.”

“What?”

“Of what I say. It’s not as if you’ve ever listened about the holiday decorations. Are those ice-pumpkins?”

“They’re still seasonal. It’s November. I do so listen to you. You solve my spreadsheet problems. Are you hungry? Do you want coffee? I can put cinnamon and cardamom in it. Or not. Whatever sounds good.”

Both Raine’s eyebrows went up this time. “Trying to tempt me with spices?”

“You said you like spice. And you look cold.” Truthfully, he did: he’d gotten thinner over the weeks of lawyerly devotion. And smudges lurked under those eyes, weary as fallen boughs. “Can I warm you up?”

“What, already?” Raine said. “Buy me dinner first, at least.”

“No! I mean yes, yeah, totally! I mean—” Don gave up, peeling off his apron. “I shouldn’t talk. I’ll just buy you dinner. If that’s okay.”

Raine did not quite shrug, but offered up a head-tip that might’ve been a shrug. “I like you talking. I didn’t mean you had to pay for dinner. Where are we going?”

“We said Indian,” Don said. “I’ve got someplace in mind, we can totally walk there, or we could drive, or—actually I don’t even know if you have a car.”

“I have a car. But, as it happens, I got a Lyft over here.” Raine was leaning on the bar, not quite obtrusively but more so than usual. He still looked tired. “I didn’t feel like driving.”

“We can walk,” Don said. “Come walk with me. It’s around the corner.”

“Lead on,” Raine said. “Take me wherever you want to go.”

Rin, in the background, made a cooing turtledove noise. Don sighed. Raine did not, though a line that might’ve been amusement framed the corner of his mouth.

They went.

The November air nibbled chilly and brisk along bones, teasing hair and eyelashes with the promise of winter. Raine’s boots were quiet on the damp city pavement. Don glanced at him and briefly felt too large, too clumsy, too bearded and unkempt; but Raine glanced over too, and suddenly the clumsiness eased. The height felt like strength. Protectiveness. Awkward, maybe, but sincere.

The place he had in mind wasn’t far and was a favorite: homey, local, nestled into a narrow red-framed opening; because of the slightly odd hour, it wasn’t busy. They ended up in a small booth, relatively tucked away, cozy and snug. Raine took in traditional artwork and vivid colors, shedding that coat, settling into red leather seating. “I definitely need samosas. And something with a lot of ginger and garlic. This looks amazing.”

“You look amazing,” Don said. He hadn’t exactly meant to say so out loud, but it was true: Raine in a marginally more casual outfit—this one involved a fitted dark green sweater over a white button-down shirt and those jeans—and getting unexpectedly excited about garlic, of all things, might’ve been artwork, a holiday catalogue, a designer’s muse. “Do you, um, want to just order sort of collectively and share?”

“Absolutely.” Raine was buried in descriptions of lamb rogan josh and chicken vindaloo. “Have you tried this? How much red chili do they use?”

“I’m getting the feeling I’m less adventurous than you are.”

“Oh, no, you’re not.” Those green-gold eyes flicked up to find his, touchingly assertive about this. “I just like cooking. And spices. But you came up with this place. You asked me out.”

That sentence descended over mango iced tea and naan, and sank in slowly.

“I mean,” Raine said, “of course you meant it as friends, we’re friends—sort of, at least, you said so once—”

“I asked you out,” Don said, because it was true. His fingers, nervous, left frost on the corner of his menu. “It’s a date. Um. If you want.”

“I’m drinking flavored coffee some days because of you,” Raine said. “I bought you a cactus.”

“Which, I’ll have you know, is still alive,” Don pointed out, and, greatly daring, slid fingers over to touch Raine’s, there on the table.

Raine said, “Your hands are cold,” but didn’t move away; his eyes were inquisitive and hopeful, summer green pleated with amber, and Don wanted to explore all those forest paths.

They ordered too much food. They shared too much food. They talked about flavors and sharpness and combinations, coconut and curry spice and cream and Raine’s homemade pesto and various kinds of coffee-bean sources; Raine asked about good running or biking trails, and Don talked about the coast and the mountains, watched Raine smile, suggested they go out together sometime. Raine had lived in the area for nearly a year, but had thrown himself into work; Don rambled too much about Whidbey Island and Mount Pilchuk and great views and huckleberries and historic fire stations.

Raine listened, attentive and fond in a way that sent tingling sparks down Don’s spine. All that interest, focused on him. Heat in those ferns. Tempting slow curls of light. Raine’s boot nudging his foot, maybe accidentally but maybe not, under the table.

The restaurant filled up: after-work corporate dinners, couples, the downtown rush. After a while the check arrived and interrupted the glow that’d settled pleasantly into Don’s heartbeat. Raine reached over to pick it up.

“No,” Don said, “I said I would, I asked you out, remember—” and made a hasty grab for it.

He managed to capture Raine’s wrist, slender bones under his own broad hand; Raine’s breath caught, an instinctive gasp like the meeting-point of delight and pain.

Don froze. They both did.

Raine, pale under habitual assurance, said nothing. Don kept hold of his arm, and cautiously touched the edge of that sweater-sleeve. No one else had noticed; tucked away in the corner, they remained in their own oasis, a refuge.

“You don’t have to know,” Raine breathed. “I didn’t want you to—I didn’t think you even wanted—we’re friends, like you said—”

“You know we’re more than that,” Don said. “ _You_ know.” He eased fabric back, saw the pinkness, the hint of bruising, the deliberate circle around that wrist. Purposeful. A rope, or a cuff, and not a considerate one. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Raine whispered. “No. And—and it wasn’t—there’s no one else. Only you. I only needed the release, the scene, the night—you were seeing Luke yesterday and I thought—I didn’t know what to think, about us, and it’s been so long and I just couldn’t breathe and I thought if I took care of it before we, before you and I, then I wouldn't need—but it wasn’t right anyway, I had to leave—”

Every single emotion collided and crashed inside Don’s heart, but only one won out. “It wasn’t right? Did someone hurt you? What can I do?”

“No—I’m fine—”

“Talk to me,” Don pleaded. “Please. Let me help.”

“It’s not something you can—”

“Raine,” Don said, and maybe he said it more sharply than he meant; maybe the name came out too firm, like a command, like an order across the fading scents of garlic and red chili spice.

Raine’s lips parted, not precisely in dismay.

The world shivered, shifting, poised.

“I can’t tell you here.” Raine surrendered that much like a secret, a promise, a vow: woven in magic and admission. “I can’t—I _will_ tell you, I promise, but not here—take me home, or someplace else, where—”

“Where we can talk.” He tossed money at the table, jumped up, held out a hand. “Come on.”

Raine looked at his hand. Then looked at his face. “I’m not an invalid.”

“No,” Don said. “I wanted to touch you.”

Raine hesitated, but set chilly fingers into his, getting up.

In the end, they tumbled into Don’s apartment: breathless, tumultuous, aware of words unsaid. They’d been quiet on the short walk back over to Don’s Honda Accord, on the two-minute drive, in the elevator up to the fifth floor. Raine had started to speak, once, in the car; Don’d shaken his head and said, “Wait.”

Now they were here. And science-fiction paperbacks and a stray pizza-box and the exposed brick wall gathered in close, listening without judgment.

Don’s place wasn’t big—one bedroom, but a decent view, and rent that’d been astonishingly good for the location, but then again he’d promised to help with any freezing or icing issues in the building—and wasn’t exactly messy, though he hadn’t cleaned, either. He’d not expected to have anyone over; he figured stacks of mail and a magazine or two were acceptable, and at least the dirty dishes were in the dishwasher. He shut the door, kicked off shoes, turned to look at Raine.

Who looked a little lost but visibly determined to face any consequences with habitual armor and spikes: still wearing his coat, clearly trying for normality and unsure how to get there. “There’s not even any organization to those bookshelves. Not alphabetical, not by size or shape. How do you find anything?”

“I know where it all goes.” He put hands on Raine’s shoulders—slowly, checking for any resistance—and tugged that coat off and hung it on a free hook. Raine’s eyes got a bit wider at this assertion, but no protest was forthcoming. He did lose the boots, mirroring Don’s own actions; his socks were black and simple and doubtless designer too.

“Come here,” Don said, and led him over to the sofa—ancient but comfortable, it’d held him through ex-boyfriends and pasta nights and first-ever daydreams about owning his own coffee-shop—and sat down with him, holding onto both his hands. That felt right, in some indefinable way. “Want anything? Coffee, food—um, we just had food, never mind—dessert? I might have some dark chocolate somewhere. Not too sweet.”

“I don’t need anything.” Raine looked at his own wrists. “I don’t understand why you’re not more upset.”

“I am,” Don said. “Not with you.”

“But…”

“You needed something. I get it. Not judging. But you said it wasn’t right, and you sounded like that hurt, when I touched you.” He tapped a finger, not hard, over the right wrist: making the point. “So I _am_ worried. Talk to me.”

Raine said, “I had to—I had to, it’d been so long and I was so tired, this case, everything, and I needed—those jokes about Cupids are true, well, for some of us, not everyone, of course there’re asexual Cupids and—but some of us do like sex, and some of us _really_ like sex, the intense kind—and I needed to feel—but I _couldn’t_ —”

Abruptly, all at once, he moved: off the couch, on both knees at Don’s feet. One hand lifted, dropped; Raine’s eyes were wide and brilliant, control splintering apart at last. “I couldn’t go through with it, at the club—I swear I didn’t—I tried, I did try, I let him tie me up and try different—but it didn’t work, it wasn’t right, I couldn’t feel it—I kept thinking about you, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Wait,” Don said, “you _what_?” and Raine made a sound like amber shattering, a sob or a collapse, and hid behind both hands, kneeling at Don’s feet.

“Wait,” Don said again, astonished, wanting to scoop him up, beginning to understand; and put a hand on the closest sweater-clad shoulder. “Raine…from the beginning, okay? You went somewhere…a club…and you let someone tie you up…”

“Yes,” Raine said, muffled. “I’m sorry. I knew I was seeing you today. I shouldn’t’ve—but that was part of it too, you don’t want me, you’ve never wanted me, of course not, you deserve nice and bright and happy and enthusiastic about beer—”

“Raine!” This time Don tightened the hand on his shoulder, and that felt like…something else too, something he hadn’t quite spared time to process yet, but it also felt right. “Look at me.”

Raine did, shivering head to toe. His eyelashes were wet, though he wasn’t outright crying.

“Hey,” Don said, very gently, and touched his cheek. Dampness met fingertips, but Raine didn’t look away; their gazes met and held, and the moment extended, washed in gold.

Don murmured, “You’re okay, I’ve got you, you’re fine,” and then had to laugh. “I thought, that first time you showed up in jeans, that those boots looked like something you’d wear to a sex club…”

“Sometimes they are.” Raine’s expression was beautiful: uncertain but hopeful, broken open, revealed; and Don did not know how anyone, himself included, had ever thought Raine could be cold and sharp and brittle, when everything in the world lay bare and pleading and vulnerable just beneath the surface. “I thought you hated those jeans.”

“Wow. No. The opposite.”

“Really?”

“Would’ve dragged you into my office and ravished you on my desk, if I’d thought you’d be into it.” He stroked his thumb over Raine’s cheek, learning the smoothness, the warmth, the shape of that skin. “I’ve wanted you since…I don’t even know. The first day you walked in and looked at everything on the menu and said, can I just have coffee, please, _if_ you can handle that—”

“I’m sorry. It’s a reflex.”

“I know why it is.” He let his hand cup Raine’s cheek. “So it was that. Or the minute right after that, when you took a sip and you looked like you wanted to smile, just for a second, and I thought you looked like someone who should want to smile more. Plus you tipped enough for, like, the next three people in line.”

“You were kind.” Raine tilted that head into his hand, not away. “Even when I was rude to you, even if other customers were rude, or if you were having problems with deliveries or lateness or running out of blueberry syrup, you were always kind. At first I was curious, and then I couldn’t believe you were real, and then I got frustrated because you kept on being real, and then I just…I kept wanting to come back. Just to see you.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“I wanted,” Raine said, and bit a lip, leaving fleeting indents in that pink. “When you’d tell me to do something…try this drink, or eat this tart…”

“You listened,” Don realized, remembering. “I mean, sometimes you’d be a total dick about it, but you’d do it. What I asked.”

“Don’t think I wasn’t annoyed about wanting to.”

“But you did want that.” He looped strawberry-gilt waves around a finger, discovering the silkiness, the tug, the way Raine’s lips parted. “You heard _me_ about wanting _you_ , right? Can I see how bad it is? Whatever bruises you have.”

Raine blinked again—the green looked a bit dreamy, distraction in magic-laced forest groves—and said “Yes, if that’s a thing you’re into?” in a tone that aimed for flippant and came out a sincere question.

“I’m into knowing you’re okay.” He kept his voice even with some effort. “Can you get up?”

“I can do anything you want,” Raine said, getting up as requested. “I’m a brilliant, what was it your puppy said, big lawyer type. Sorry, sorry, I’ll try not to be sarcastic at you.”

“I like it,” Don said. “Only you would tell me to alphabetize my bookshelves when I’m trying to take care of you. Can you…is it okay if I…” He touched Raine’s shirtsleeve, asking.

“Of course.” Raine peeled off sweater and shirt in one easy motion, unselfconscious as a Cupid could be about sex and bare skin. He was glorious, as Don had always known he would be: graceful proportions, scattered constellations of gold-dust freckles, lean triathlete’s build. Today’s jeans sat low on those hips, adorned with that recognizable purple belt, and beckoned attention to the plane of his stomach, and lower.

The tattoo drew the eye. Swirling, reaching, it looped upward from his forearm to his shoulder, and stretched flame-tendrils over that edge of collarbone: leaping red and orange and topaz, outlined in black, almost abstract. It bloomed in fire, and Don wanted to taste it, wanted to find out whether it’d murmur like flame against his tongue.

Raine said, “Don?”

“Yeah,” Don said, and felt the sneaky scampering thrill of it: his name on those lips. “Everything still okay? Too cold?”

“Still fine. You said you were trying to take care of me.”

“If you want that,” Don said, and took his arm again: tracing fingers over freckles, over a ring of pinkened flesh, over marks of unfulfilled yearning. “If you want.”

“Please,” Raine said. “I don’t know if I’ll be any good at it—I wasn’t, last night, or I suppose early this morning, really, that would’ve been. But it never got there. Where it felt like what I needed. But yes. Please.”

The marks weren’t bad, on his wrists; Don pressed a thumbtip into one. Raine gasped. Don said, “Rope?”

“Cuffs first. That wasn’t overwhelming enough. Or I thought so. I think I just couldn’t…I never let go enough. I couldn’t get out of my head. How is this not too weird for you?”

“Turn around. Oh—do those hurt?” He touched Raine’s back, which was also pink. Not many lines, but some. “You heal faster than human standard, right?”

“I do. I don’t normally like a lot of pain—I like belonging to someone, and being given orders or being scolded or corrected, or being held down and made to take it, but I’m not really a masochist in the traditional sense—but he tried. The person I was with. To see if it’d work.”

“It’s not too weird.” He let his hand slide up, let it rest at the nape of Raine’s neck. Let it stay there even after Raine turned back to face him.

Don added, “I know what I like. In—”

“If you say porn I’m leaving.”

“No you’re not. It started with porn, yeah. I got more interested, got a sense of what worked for me, looked some things up. Did a lot of reading.” He considered this, and clarified, “I mean, I might need to do some more reading if you want anything with, y’know, serious equipment. I haven’t _done_ a lot. But I _like_ the idea of taking care of you. Having you as mine. Giving you what you need, whether that’s holding your hand—”

Raine’s smile flickered, coming back but unconvinced about it: ghostly, wavering, evanescent.

“—or bending you over for a spanking when you’re being a brat on purpose.”

Raine actually made a small sound at that, and shifted weight. The line of his cock, under those jeans, was visibly hard, upright and pressing forward.

Don said, “We’re good.”

“Are we?” Raine was watching each reaction, each of Don’s expressions; Don thought fleetingly about Raine as a lawyer, examining witnesses, dissecting testimony. “I want—you have no idea what I’ve been wanting, with you. And I was with someone else last night. Trying to not think, even though it didn’t work. And you say we’re okay.”

Don tightened that hand on his neck. Raine’s knees wobbled. Those pretty eyes got even wider.

“We are,” Don told him. “We’re okay. I know why you might’ve needed to. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I would have been. I want to be. I’m here now.”

“And I’m here.” Raine swallowed. “With your obnoxious bookshelves.”

“Ah,” Don said. “Okay, then. Get on your knees.”

Raine dropped to the floor so fast Don winced on his behalf. “Don’t _hurt_ your knees.”

“Sorry,” Raine said. “Sir.”

“If you want, yeah. Or my name.” He put a hand out, stroked wayward hair back. That felt good too, even if he did not have a ton of practice in this area. He did know what he liked, and he’d done some research, the same way he’d approach new flavors or new blends; he was starting to have an idea about what Raine liked, from the responses and the provocation and the way Raine had gone quiet, kneeling, with Don’s hand cupping his upturned face. “How’re you feeling right now? About everything. Us. This. Your work. You said you needed an outlet.”

“Better.” Raine sounded surprised. “Not perfect, but—better. The way you touched me, just now. The way you talk to me."

“Good. Stay put for a sec.”

He did have a few lotions and creams around, some good for burns or accidental scalding from experiments; not quite the same thing, but he figured it couldn’t hurt. He came back with a jar, dipped fingers in, stroked salve across Raine’s left wrist. “How’s that?”

“Mmm,” Raine said. “Cool. Nice. I—oh, _yes_ —really am okay, though.”

Don stopped to flick fingers against the inside of his arm, not quite a scolding. “Which one of us is in charge?”

“You, please.”

“Exactly. Other arm.”

Raine offered it willingly. He’d remained on his knees; his posture was flawless. His cock, Don noticed, had grown if anything even stiffer and more erect: outlined in impressive length in those tight jeans.

Around them, the evening hummed and coiled: clouds returning, and the prophecy of water in the air, cool and light as joy. Beyond the window Seattle danced in color: a city with autumn lights coming on, a holiday ballgown on display. Framed by books and the sofa and his own discarded shirt and sweater, Raine was a tapestry of stories: bruises and desire, freckles and a fire-tattoo, that ironic clever mouth and the readiness with which he’d knelt and obeyed orders and stayed in place.

“You do want this,” Don murmured, gazing at him, hand lying salve-sticky over a tendril of flame. The same arousal throbbed in his own body, in his gut, in the thick heavy weight of his cock, which wanted Raine there kneeling at his feet always. Kneeling at his feet, and accepting care. “You like this.”

“I told you I like belonging to someone,” Raine said. “Were you not listening?”

“Brat. No, don’t apologize, it’s good. It’s you.” He looked for someplace to clean fingers; ended up swiping them over Raine’s shoulder, the one without the tattoo. Raine did not object. “You want more? You want me to, um, take care of you more?”

“I want you,” Raine said. “I want to forget everything else. I want to just be me. To be yours. Because you smiled at me, the first time I ever met you, and every day since. Because you’re keeping my cactus alive.”

“I do like cacti,” Don said. “You can get up. Only long enough to get to my bed. Then I want you naked and on the bed. Um. If that’s okay.”

“Everything,” Raine said. “Everything. Please.”

They ran down the hallway as the thunder boomed outside, electric and riotous; Don left a hand around Raine’s arm, and tugged him closer in the bedroom doorway. Raine moaned softly and came readily, unexpectedly pliant even when saying “I thought you wanted me naked—”

“I do.” Don grabbed both his hands, pinned them over his head against the doorframe, fit their bodies together: himself still clothed, jeans and Henley, against Raine’s bare stomach and long legs. “I want to kiss you.”

“Oh,” Raine said, as if not having dared to hope for that and wanting it very much, “yes, yes, please yes, I want you to—”

Don kissed him. Raine tasted like spices and mango tea and a hint of sea-salt from earlier, and melted into being kissed: not passive but welcoming, needing, begging for attention with mischievous licks and nibbles and pleas, while his hips arched into Don’s. Don learned the shape of him, the sweetness and the sharpness, the shameless asking for more and the adorable helpless noises at the scrape of Don’s beard or a tightening of hands on wrists.

When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Don tried to remember how to talk; Raine said, “You mean we could’ve been doing that from the beginning? Should I have tried bending over your desk while working on your filing system?”

“We still can. And you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He had a hand on Raine’s belt, sliding it free from loops. “You can see how good you are with spreadsheets with your pants around your ankles. And me making you come. Or not letting you. Until I say you’re done.”

Raine laughed, the sort of laugh that leapt out from sheer happiness, too much to contain. “I can be very good. Or not, if you’d rather spank me for it. Can I at least protect my suit? If I have to go back to work?”

“No. You can bring a change of clothes.” He leaned in, rumbled, “I want to at least get to ruin _one_ of your suits. Getting you all filthy, dirty, sticky with it…maybe making you come _in_ that suit, all over yourself, and then getting you on your knees so I can come all over you…or I’d want you up against the wall, and get your pants off just enough so I could fuck you, come inside you, watch it drip out of you and make you even more of a mess…”

Raine made a desperate choked-off sound; one hand dropped to his cock, squeezing hard. Don raised eyebrows, caught the hand, gathered the other one up to meet it. “You were liking that, weren’t you? Me telling you everything I want to do to you? Were you going to come like that, right here in your pants, from me talking to you?”

“Yes,” Raine breathed. “I would—I want—I need—if I say I keep wanting to rearrange your sales shelf in the coffee-shop, because there’s no order to your items and looking at those crooked lines of mugs makes me wonder if you know anything about displays after all—”

“You’re not going to insult a Frost’s sense of décor, are you, Cupid?” He looped the belt around Raine’s wrists, being careful of previous scrapes and salve—Raine did heal fast, those spots were already less pink, but that meant they’d been rough to start—and pulled it tight; Raine’s eyes danced. “You’re asking for that spanking, aren’t you? Being put back in your place? Where I can do what I want to you, and you’ll take it?”

He worried about this last bit for a second, but Raine murmured, “Yes, exactly, being yours,” and their eyes caught for an instant: pure mutual understanding. Raine threw in, “So far you’ve told me to get naked and then not let me, and tied my hands with my own belt. Are you going to need advice here, or—”

Don yanked on the belt. Raine, without proper use of hands, stumbled. Don shoved him to both knees and said, “I can think of better uses for that mouth,” and unfastened his own jeans and drew out his cock: already flushed and thick and hot to his own touch, fatter than Raine’s and therefore promising sensation. Raine made another little pleased sound, molten and liquid, mouth open.

“Hmm,” Don said. “I don’t know, you think you deserve it?” and gave himself one leisurely stroke, base to tip, enjoying the way those green eyes tracked the motion. “You want me to be nice to you? To give you what you want?”

“Please,” Raine begged. “Please, please—I want you, I’ll be good for you, can I please—”

Don paused, standing in front of him. “Seems too easy, if you’re already promising to be good…” He reached down with the other hand, touched Raine’s chin: a question. Too far? Too much, if Raine was already contrite and promising to behave?

“Oh,” Raine said. “Ah…I mean, no, you’re going to have to show me what you think my mouth is for, then.” He paused, too, and almost laughed again. “Better? Also, yes, I’m fine. Rather amazed about you. Those fantasies. But it’s still you.”

“Of course it’s still me,” Don said, and his hand, cupping Raine’s face, got deliberately gentler. “Just checking in on you. And, hey, it _is_ the fantasy. The opposite of reality. Someone like you—not _like_ you, I mean. _You_. All gorgeous and brilliant and perfect, on your knees for, well, someone like me.”

“Of course it’s you,” Raine said right back. “Being kind. Giving me what I want. Checking in. You’re you and I’m me and this is reality. Like good Indian food. And your terrible filing system.”

Don nearly laughed, nearly needed to scrub a hand over his eyes, nearly said _I love you, you’re perfect, I love you._

The storm burst free and cheered, triumphant, rattling windowpane glass. Raine’s eyes were warm and trusting. His tattoo shimmered over muscles, luminous, ruby and onyx.

“I want you,” Don said. “If you need me to stop you can move your hands, you can push me or something, got it? And don’t come, but feel free to touch yourself, to keep yourself right there. Actually, you can open up those jeans and show me, okay?”

Raine moaned a little, and did as instructed, awkward with bound wrists but successful. His cock jutted out, long and graceful as the rest of him, maybe not quite matching Don’s in girth but a delicious deep color and already wet enough to drip against his fingers, leaving pearly streaks.

Don had to forcibly remind himself of the current plan. Too tantalizing, so much he wanted to do. But for now— “Yeah. Do that.” Raine whimpered, and rubbed hands against himself, the purple of his belt bright against fair skin and stardust freckles.

Don kept the hand on his face, and held him in place, and thrust into his mouth, slow but inexorable, not letting up. Raine took him in without flinching, all the way to the root, plunging deep into that eloquent throat. Don gazed down at him, and Raine let out another muffled tiny whimper and rocked hips: pushing his cock into his own hands.

“You do like that,” Don agreed, “don’t you? That feels good, me filling you up…” He drew back, thrust again: loving the skilled plush welcome of that mouth, the way Raine tried to moan and lick and suck at him, the way Raine gave up trying, no being in control here, and settled into his grip and the motions. Don rewarded him with harder thrusts for that, faster, deeper; Raine was making broken noises and moving those hips as if unable to help himself, mouth wet and obedient, taking everything. Those lovely spring-leaf eyes began looking faraway, distant, clouded by rainbows; Don steadied his head with both hands, keeping him exactly in place, and Raine shivered all over and those eyelashes swept down and up, fluttering.

Raine’s cock, Don noticed, glancing down further, was leaking copiously: all over his fingers, onto his unfastened jeans, even down to the rug. The slide of that stiff length through those hands, tied as they were, showed obscene and splendid.

The sight made him groan and bury himself further in Raine’s throat. He did not come, either, but felt the swell and pulse of a few drops, a premonition of glory; he left his cock there, keeping Raine full, both of them aching on the edge of wonder and delight.

He held Raine in place until he thought he needed to move; he’d been watching those eyes, that face, closely, and Raine hadn’t objected, but Don wasn’t going to hurt him. So, then: pulling back, easing out; resting his cock just inside Raine’s mouth, then withdrawing more and teasing those lips a little, pressing the length against them. Raine moaned blindly and tried to lick at him, to suckle him, to coax him back. Don laughed, said, “No, you get what I decide you get, remember?” and took a step back. “I want you on my bed. If you can get up, walk. If not you can get there on your knees.”

Raine’s eyes went a bit wider, processing through the haze. His voice sounded well-fucked and raw, with emotion, with use. “I—that—oh, wow.”

“Wasn’t sure you’d like that one. Figured I’d ask. You can say no.”

“I don’t want to say no.” Raine looked down at himself, at his evident wanting. “I don’t think I could stand up if I tried. Can I have my hands, though?”

“Oh, yeah, sure—here—” He tossed Raine’s belt somewhere in the direction of the bed. It landed on the rug with a tempting thump. “Still good?”

“Wonderful.”

“Come on, then.”

He started pulling off his own clothes—shirt, jeans, boxers—but froze halfway through, standing on one foot. Raine on hands and knees, cock hard and pushing out of jeans, coming to settle shyly but sincerely at the side of Don’s bed…

Well. That did things for him. A lot of things. Things he’d never dared to even fantasize about.

Raine said, a bit meekly, “You said you wanted me on the bed but I’m not sure I can stand up…”

“Oh! Right, sorry. I’ve got you.” He kicked aside the last clinging tendrils of clothing, and bent and scooped his Cupid into his arms. He peeled Raine’s sticky jeans and tight black briefs off, along the way. “There. Taking care of you.”

“You are.” Raine, spread out across Don’s sheets—and Don decided that Raine framed by dark green cotton was the best sight in the universe—lay there smiling up at him; Don bent down over him just to kiss him. Raine attempted to say something else while being kissed, and gave up and just made happy noises, especially when Don nuzzled the beard into his throat, kissing a trail down to his collarbone and a few looping swirls of flame.

“Mmm. Sorry, were you talking?”

“Me? No. Do that again.”

“You, yes. And doing this, yes. Seriously, tell me, I’ll make it an order if you want.”

“I knew it was you,” Raine said. “Or I knew it could be. From the day we met. But I didn’t know, not really.”

“That Cupid instinct.” Don, lying half atop him, ran a hand down over him: found Raine’s cock, and began to play with it, stroking, pumping, firm and dominant and taking charge of this. Raine wriggled to make the angle better, obligingly; Don leaned down to nip at and then kiss his closest nipple. “No coming until I tell you. You knew but not really?”

“I thought… _oh_ …I thought I felt it. But it’s hard…don’t laugh, you know what I mean!…to know. Especially when I’ve been trying to ignore it.” Raine gasped as Don’s grip got more forceful. “The problem—no, that’s not too much, you can do more, it feels good—the problem is it wasn’t one of the clearest ones. Not like your customers. Sometimes they aren’t, those instincts. It has to do with the timing, the wanting, where both people are and what they’re ready for…”

“So you weren’t sure.” One more kiss, somewhere between an apology and comprehension. Maybe they both hadn’t been ready, then. He hadn’t known Raine at all; Raine had been new to the city and his new job and his whole life, leaving behind notoriety and tabloid gossip. “Makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Things happen when they happen. I know about seasons.” He also had an idea. “How’re your wrists?”

“Hmm? Fine. Can you do that thing you just did again, with your fingers?”

“Oh, I can. But first…hands on the headboard. Hold still.” He sat up and used the free hand to gather both wrists together, and to summon up power. Icy and clear, glittering as diamonds, frost wrapped around Raine’s wrists: cuffs, white and shining and thick and joined to the headboard. “Too cold?”

“Oh,” Raine said, wide-eyed, clearly tugging at arms just to feel the restraint, not trying to get free. “You need to fuck me right _now_.”

“You like me using my magic on you?”

“Yes _please_.”

“Still not too cold?”

“Mmm…cold but good. I’m not human. And I like it. Sensations. Being…”

“Being mine?”

“Yes,” Raine said. “Oh yes.”

“Good,” Don said, and ran a hand over him: leaving ice-prickles in the wake of the touch, sudden wintry blooms of, yes, sensation, fading quickly but enough to make Raine gasp and moan and squirm. The ice brushed spread thighs, vulnerable skin; Raine trembled, but his cock jumped, dripping.

Don bent to kiss his hipbone. “I wouldn’t hurt you with it.”

“I know,” Raine said. “Not unless I ask you to.”

“Maybe sometime. Letting you feel it, maybe inside you, or here…” He was back to fondling Raine’s shaft, and the twin weights beneath; no ice now, just his hand. “Getting you close, all hot and needing it, right on the brink, begging me to do whatever I want to do with you, and then making you feel _this_ …” Just a hint, just a brush, a winter’s kiss; but the cold trailed across Raine’s cock and balls and flirted with the idea. Further back, it fluttered over tender muscle and that tempting opening.

Raine gave a small cry and arched against him, shuddering, body swept up in the pleasure and the cold and the desire, moving frantically. “Don—sir—please—I want—”

“What do you want, little Cupid?” He swiped fingers over the tip of Raine’s cock, gathering slickness; rubbed the slickness over that furl of muscle. He’d get lube and do this properly, of course, but he wanted to watch Raine falling apart in exactly the way Don’d once wondered if he would, wanton and yearning, surrendered to ecstasy and command. “You’re not in charge here. You said you wanted to be mine, and you are, so you’ll take whatever I give you. _My_ little Cupid.”

“ _Oh_ —” Raine said, and trembled everywhere, body tensing as if on the brink, but then calming: soothed by the words, carried into someplace blissful and floating, where everything became drowsy and sweet. His voice came out small and sweet too. “Yes, Don. Yours.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want you to be a brat. If you feel like it.” He dove for the bedside table and lube. “Still okay? You want me to fuck you, right? And we don’t need anything else…”

“Condoms? No, we’re good.” Raine woke up enough to grin. His hair was stuck to his face, pale red against pink-flushed fairness. “Neither of us is human, remember? Especially not me, especially not in this context. And I want to feel you in me. Like you said. Dripping out of me. Have I earned that yet?”

“One more question.” He pressed fingers to Raine’s body, tracing that muscle, letting it grow slick and slippery with lube. He pushed one finger in, then two because Raine had made a delicious sound and opened right up for him. Two was fun; he played with that for a while, learning angles, motions, how to crook fingers to earn that particular sound again. Three was good too, nice and big though not as big as his cock would be, but Raine seemed to have no trouble with the three, only moaning and writhing under him, cheeks pink, skin flushed under the tattoo, cock smearing eagerness all across that flat stomach.

Don played with him a bit more, one hand on his cock and the other working inside him, long enough to make him sob and beg. Raine shuddering and soft and slippery around Don’s fingers, letting out small needy cries as Don paid assiduous attention to that spot within him but kept an iron grip on his cock, was utterly sublime.

Eventually he remembered he’d had a question. “One more question, I said. Still with me?”

Raine, practically non-verbal at this point, all dazed pretty noises and whines, met his eyes. Started to speak, discovered no sound, looked a bit puzzled, but nodded.

“Not talking?”

“It’s…unusually hard.” It sounded that way. Raine’s arms were wet; the ice had begun melting, trailing down forearms, over freckles and flame. “I haven’t…that doesn’t normally happen.”

“Well,” Don said reasonably, “you did say you were needing this. And you know I’ve got you.”

Raine nodded again.

“If you don’t want to use words, you can nod, but this is important, okay?” He waited; Raine nodded. “Okay. So…you said last night, for you…it wasn’t…good, you said.”

Raine now looked a bit more puzzled.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Don said. “I know you said you wanted this. I just…is there anything I should do, or not do, or anything?” He’d kept fingers stretching Raine’s body, keeping him loose and stuffed, and nothing seemed to hurt, but he wasn’t sure Raine was comprehending much in the way of possible hurt right now.

Raine blinked at him, seeming baffled.

“Because this is seriously moving fast,” Don tried, “and if—I don’t know, okay, if you’re not—you know you can stop this. Any time.”

Raine blinked again, and then said, “You know your first one wasn’t a yes or no question, and I was trying to figure out how to nod,” which sounded precisely like the person Don had fallen head over heels for on a winter day, over strong black coffee and quick dry sarcasm, almost a year ago.

He had to laugh. Right here, right now, about to make love to Raine in his bed under the crackle of the storm. Perfection.

He wanted Raine even more somehow. His own body was straining with it. Heat, coiled deep and tight.

“I want you,” Raine said. “I told you I’m fine. When everything ended last night it was mutual, just not working, nothing bad. And it didn’t even get that far.” He glanced down at Don’s hand, at his own arousal. “ _Definitely_ not this far.”

“Okay,” Don said. “I just wanted—”

“You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t,” Raine said. “Lemon tarts and worrying. Now please come here and let me feel that fantastic dick inside me and make me scream so loudly we scare your cat.”

“I don’t have a cat,” Don pointed out.

“Your neighbor’s cat, then,” Raine snapped. “Please. This is me begging. This is me being yours, the way you said, held down by your magic in your bed while you take care of me, so take care of me, please.”

“Completely yes,” Don said. “Fantastic dick?”

“You know it is,” Raine said, “and teasing me with it after I’ve gotten to taste it is just unfair, because— _oh_ —”

Don had yanked fingers out and moved atop him, pushing his legs up, pushing into him; Raine moaned and went quiet, which was impressive.

“What if,” Don said, “I want you to come like this? Just from me inside you, fucking you, making you feel it. I could not touch your cock at all, and you’d still come for me, wouldn’t you? Because you need it. You need this, being fucked, me making you take it.” He pulled back, thrust more roughly, pushed Raine’s legs up higher. Raine felt magnificent, that body taking him in, clenching down around him. He was going to come soon; he could feel the lightning-bolt gathering, sparks flaring. “You need to be someone’s, don’t you? My little Cupid.”

“Yes,” Raine gasped, “yes, oh—oh, that, Don, sir, please—” His voice cracked and fell into that sweet submissive pleading again, and his eyes were huge and awash with euphoria, the physical and the emotional. “I need you, I always needed you, I’m yours—”

Faster. Deeper. Both of them breathless, swept up, overwhelmed. Don plunged into him again, heard Raine’s tiny joyful cry, and began to tumble over that edge, into the white heat; he got a hand on Raine’s cock, not stroking, only holding him, gripping him hard, and demanded, “Come for me.” Raine’s body arched in fabulous instant surrender, his head falling back; he came silently, a soundless scream across those lips, cock spilling out pulse after pulse between them.

Don groaned and clutched him more tightly and fell into the brilliance too, release so profound he could do nothing but cling to Raine as it poured out of him and took him and flooded sheer rightness through him, body and soul.

He fell down atop Raine in the aftermath, panting; he lay there for a moment. Arms went around him, eventually; they felt nice, slim and strong. He buried his face in Raine’s neck, breathing in vanilla and spice and sweat, the heat of a Cupid’s skin and the scents of male pleasure. He did not feel like thinking, much.

A hand ran through his hair, calming, grounding. One of Raine’s legs was curled around his waist; Raine’s body was sticky and supple under his. Don shut his eyes, breathing.

Raine murmured something low and indistinguishable, affectionate-sounding but strangely almost melancholy as well. Don thought this was probably important, and wanted to say something, but he was very tired.

He tried, though. “Raine…”

“Yes,” Raine said immediately. “Yes, I’m here.” The leg rubbed against Don’s hip. “You’re wonderful. I’ve got you.”

“Wait…that’s not…” He wiggled around to try to see Raine’s face. “I’ve got _you_. I said.”

“Yes,” Raine said, “you did, you were incredible, I feel…so good. I promise.” His hand had fallen to Don’s back, and he traced a tiny design, though Don couldn’t place it. “So good. With you.”

“Good,” Don said, clumsily, and woke up more. “Your arms—”

“Are wonderful too. Your ice melted.” Raine’s smile was crooked, serious, poignant: happy, though, Don thought. Happy in a sort of astounded way. “I’m marvelous. Would you mind moving? Only for a second. My other leg’s protesting.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry—” When he moved he felt himself slipping: softer inside Raine, and sliding out. Raine was wet with him, slick with him; Don paused, drinking in this reality. Himself. Having made love to Raine, filled him up, left him visibly and tangibly and messily claimed.

He ran a finger over that furl of muscle, wondering at everything. Raine gasped, and then made a different sound, almost a sob.

Don became a statue, utterly immobile. “I did hurt you—”

“No,” Raine said. “No, no, you didn’t—I only—it’s a lot. Everything. I didn’t expect—even earlier today, if someone’d asked me then, I didn’t think this would ever—and everything we did, just now—it’s just a lot. I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” Don fumbled for clean-up fabric—found his own shirt, shrugged, mentally vowed to thank it later—and made an effort, as much as he could. Melted ice, lube, both their releases: he couldn’t not be impressed. “You’d tell me, right?”

“I would,” Raine said. “I’m happy.”

“Just sort of aftermath, then?” He was still feeling fuzzy, sort of drowsy and exhilarated at once; he plopped back down, held out arms. “Can I hold you? Or do you need anything? I told you I did some reading—um, after a scene or whatever—could you use food? Sugar? Orange juice? Water? It’s not even that late, we went out early, if there’s anything you want to do, I could put on a movie—”

“Hold me,” Raine said. “Just hold me. Please.”

“Of course,” Don said, putting arms around him. “Of course, of course yes, anything. Anchors, grounding, touching you. I can do all of that.”

“You did do some reading,” Raine said, now cuddled into Don’s chest. “You’re adorable. Go to sleep if you want to. We can nap.”

“Only if you do.” He kissed the top of Raine’s head, an impulse. “You know I want to do that. All of it.”

“You can worry about me later.” Raine yawned, nestled more into Don’s hold, became a sleepy kitten, all long legs and worn-out freckles. “Nap first.”

“I like you sleeping with me,” Don said, and closed his eyes.

They woke a few hours later, entwined. They kissed slowly, excitedly, awkward and learning and thrilled. Don traced the curve of Raine’s smile with a fingertip and bundled him up in blankets and then yelped as Raine’s hand snuck up and found his cock and teased. They lost the blankets.

After that round, Don found bitter chocolate, made coffee, stared at the contents of his fridge. Raine, sitting up, peeked out from the bed—the line of sight was decent, with the door open—and said, “Do you at least have pasta? Some sort of cheese? Olive oil? Or butter?”

“I think so,” Don said. “You don’t have to get up.”

“I’m awake.” Raine hopped off the bed, turned Don’s top blanket into a makeshift blue-striped toga, emerged from the bedroom looking like a disreputable runway model demonstrating the latest trend in post-sex attire. “You have a pot, right? Tell me you have a pot.”

“I have… _a_ pot.”

“How do you _live_? Sorry, sorry, I’m trying to be nice. New leaves. All that. Salt? Black pepper?”

“Um…maybe? I think I bought some for guests once. I think we’re past whatever leaf that was. You don’t have to try to be nice to me.”

“The problem is,” Raine said, emerging from Don’s cupboards with pepper in hand, “I don’t want to _not_ be nice to you. It’s only habit. I don’t think I’m very good at people, mostly. I miss my basil. I make my own pesto. I’ll make some for you sometime.”

“I’m there for whatever you want to make.” He watched Raine conjure up pasta, with cheese and pepper and the last slightly soggy tomato he’d bought for sandwiches and not eaten yet. Under those hands it perked up and joined the party. “You’re good _for_ people. It’s not that you don’t care.”

It’s that you do care, he thought. And you know the rumors about Cupids and power, and about you in particular, and you make sure no one comes close enough to be in danger. A cactus. My cactus.

He was aware that that was probably not a normal term of endearment.

He said, “That smells fantastic.”

“It’d be better with my herb-garden in it, but it’s not bad.” Raine tossed him a grin, and if any other emotion hid beneath Don couldn’t spot it. “Pasta in bed? My toes are cold.”

This, as Raine had no doubt known it would, worked. Don promptly put an arm around him, took the bowl, and got him snuggled back under blankets. They shared a fork, and Don flipped the tiny bedroom television to some sort of cooking show—he’d been skimming across channels, and Raine made an interested sound, so he stopped—and he wanted to try homemade pesto and warm Raine’s toes up with his, always, forever.

Later in the night they made love again, slower this time but no less intense, Raine riding Don’s cock, head thrown back, all those slender athlete’s muscles in exquisite motion. Don, getting too close, grabbed his wrists and pinned them behind his back; Raine moaned and rocked those hips faster, and Don told him to come, made him come, hand on his cock and hand on his wrists.

Raine came with Don’s name on his lips, nearly the promised out-loud scream; Don fucked him through it, knowing he’d be oversensitive, flipping him over onto his back and pounding hard, until Raine was all but incoherent, falling apart around him, under him, clinging to him through every shattering sensation, every spasm and clench. Don kissed him, after, and stroked fingers through his hair, and along his back and shoulder, holding him through the aftershocks and the random lingering twitches of pleasure.

He said, when Raine seemed to be more awake, “Why fire?”

“It wasn’t originally.” Raine propped his chin on one hand, on Don’s chest: shamelessly cuddled up close and enjoying the petting. “You can’t laugh if I tell you this.”

“I won’t,” Don agreed, and trailed fingers over spirals of crimson and smoke.

“So,” Raine said, “I was twenty-one, and dating a Sea King, and we got very drunk one night…”

“I can see where this story is going.”

“We decided we should get complementary tattoos. He got a string of hearts—you said you wouldn’t laugh, thanks for that—”

“I’m trying to picture you drunk and getting a tattoo.”

“It’s unlikely to ever happen again. Anyway, he picked out a kraken for me. It had tentacles.”

Don ran a fingertip along a beckoning flame, intrigued.

“The short version of the story,” Raine finished, “is that he cheated on me—don’t say I should’ve known, I did know it wouldn’t be a long relationship, but I was only looking for fun back then, though I didn’t expect that exact ending—and we broke up, and I decided I wanted to get it redone into something as far from the ocean as I could.”

“Petty. I like it.”

“No you don’t. You’re too nice.”

“Well, I like your tattoo. It feels like you.” He followed a guide of fire down Raine’s arm. “Like something you picked out.”

“Sort of,” Raine said. “I chose the retouched design, out of the ones that’d work well with what I had. I’ve thought about getting another one, but I don’t know what yet. You honestly do like it?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I? I’ve thought about getting one. Just never did it. But maybe I finally would if you wanted to.”

Raine sat up more.

“What?” Don sat up too. “Still okay? Need anything?”

“I’m submissive and kinky, not breakable,” Raine snapped. “You don’t have to ask every five minutes.”

“Okay,” Don said, and then they looked at each other for a second, while rain splashed and pooled and scampered down the building outside, falling to the street.

Raine’s shoulders slumped: a somewhat terrifying admission of emotion. “Sorry. I’m…off-balance. And I’m having a hard time with this. Not with you, with all of this. You’ve been nothing but amazing. But…”

“With everything,” Don agreed, understanding, believing he understood. “You’ve had a rough few weeks, your case and, um…needing an outlet…and that’s harder too with your kind of magic, right? You’re always thinking, sort of? Not accidentally pushing someone into wanting something they don’t already?”

Raine stared at him, put a hand over that mouth—to hold back laughter or tears, Don didn’t know—and then said, “Yes.”

“So come here,” Don said. “Come here and let me take care of you. Spend the night.”

“Spend the night?” Raine said. “I have to work tomorrow.” But he came back over and fit himself into Don’s outstretched arm.

“You can leave early,” Don said. “I have a car, even. I can drive you home.” He let the thrill of this idea sink into his bones. He wanted to.

“You’re off tomorrow,” Raine said, stretching one long leg out, sticking a foot between Don’s ankles. “Don’t wake up early for me.”

“Are you a morning person? You are, aren’t you?”

“Five am, and I go for a run before breakfast most days.”

“No wonder you’re always in a terrible mood. What time do you want me to set this alarm, then?”

“Don’t,” Raine said. “Just don’t. Please.”

The please swung around and stabbed, unexpectedly.

Don listened to the falling rain while breathing, and then said, “If you don’t want to tell me why, that’s fine, but at least tell me if it’s something I did?”

“No!” Raine held onto him, then: an instinctive gesture, as if afraid of one or both of them slipping away; this more than anything was convincing. “No, you didn’t, don’t think that. It’s me. I need to—no, it’s not you. I swear.”

“Okay…”

“I’ll tell you before I leave,” Raine said. “I will. I just want to be happy here. Right now. Spending the night with you.”

“You’re happy,” Don said, cheek pressed into that hair, heartbeat so loud he thought Raine must be hearing it, feeling it.

“I am,” Raine said. “I am.”

In the morning Don woke from unfocused dreams about pink hearts and strawberries in a coffee-mug—accompanied for some reason by green pasta in another matching mug, and both mugs were sitting on Brewed’s counter and beaming at him without visible eyes—to Raine sitting on the side of the bed, hand on Don’s shoulder, having caused gentle shaking. The storm outside had stopped; Raine’s eyes were pale in dawn-light, and he’d gotten dressed in yesterday’s clothes, covering up that fiery explosion of tattoo. He’d somehow cleaned his jeans.

Don pondered the possibility of Cupids having a secondary gift for dry-cleaning, while struggling into wakefulness. It’d be useful in certain situations, he concluded. “You got dressed.”

“I have to go. It’s almost six-thirty.”

“You didn’t set your alarm for five—”

“I am _not_ going for a run this morning.” Raine’s smile snuck out, as if it couldn’t stay hidden. “Not after last night’s workout. I do need to go home and shower and change, though.”

“Sure you don’t want a ride?”

“You can go back to sleep. But I need to talk to you.”

“Um,” Don said, rubbing a hand over blurry eyes, sitting up. Raine sounded serious. “ ’kay.”

“I won’t stop by tomorrow. Or for…a few weeks, I think.”

“What? Why?” He was a hundred percent awake now. “Did I—”

“No, I said it wasn’t you, and that’s true.” Raine sighed. He’d moved the hand off Don’s shoulder; both of them rested on a knee, too tense to be casual. “I need to know. I need to know it’s real. That I didn’t do what we both know I can. Making you want me.”

“How does that mean you can’t be around me?” Even as he said it he knew.

“I can’t,” Raine said to his own hands. “Not—not for a while. If it’s real, if it’s not just me being what I am—it’ll still be here.”

“You need to know,” Don whispered, “that I can stay away from you. That I can choose this, or not, with you.”

“You were every single one of my fantasies, last night,” Raine said. “ _Everything_ I wanted. Everything I needed. And you talked about wanting a tattoo when you never have before, and you said you’d get up and drive me home even though you’re not a morning person, and—and I want this too much not to be afraid I’m making you want it too.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Don said. “I think you’re wrong about this. I _know_ I want you. The tattoo thing is true, you can ask my brother, he’ll tell you I’ve talked about it and not bothered to do it for years. The morning thing is just being _nice_.” But as he said that he couldn’t not wonder.

He wasn’t a morning person. And he’d had that thought, the night before: this was a fantasy, but it wasn’t something he _did_ , it wasn’t him, he didn’t magically tie beautiful high-powered lawyer Cupids with cynical mouths to his bed, certainly not on a first date…he didn’t mind talking in bed, but he didn’t say things like that, claiming and possessive…not outside of personal pleasurable getting-off daydreams…

Raine could do that. Raine could make someone do that, feel that: so lost in lust and love and yearning that the world flipped upside down. Not maliciously, Don would never believe that of him, but unconsciously—

Maybe. Maybe.

Raine saw it on his face, then.

And Don had never seen someone’s heart crumple and break and collapse, not like that, but he saw it now: like sugar dissolving in winter. Like sun-seared frost.

“I’m sorry,” Raine said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know for sure. I don’t know. And I need to know. I need to know if I hurt you.”

The world had changed. It changed again, at those words, at that hopeless acceptance: Raine thought it was true.

Don took a deep breath, let it out: sitting there naked in his sheets, with Raine, fully dressed, equally naked and not meeting his eyes.

He said, “I won’t say it doesn’t matter if you did. But even if you did, I think you’re wrong about this.”

Raine glanced up, at that.

Don said, “I know why you think you need to give me space. It’s not even a bad idea. If you want to be sure. But you’re still wrong. I know what I want. I knew last night, I knew months ago, I know now. I want you to organize my bookshelves and get annoyed that I own one pot. I want you naked on your knees in my bedroom and I want you to come into Brewed wearing those suits and drink whatever coffee you want and insult my holiday windows. I want you, and that’s me saying it.”

Raine started to speak; Don held up a hand. Raine’s eyebrows shot up, but he stayed quiet.

“But I know you won’t believe it until you know,” Don told him. “So, okay. Tell me how long you need. You know where to find me when you’re ready.”

Raine had gone a little pale during this assertion, and one hand twitched as if wanting to reach out. “You…you’d do that? Waiting for me?”

Don held out his own hand. “You said you want this. And you said it wouldn’t take forever. So, yeah.”

Raine gave in. His fingers were chilly but not badly so, and he curled them around Don’s, not tightly but enough. “I don’t know how long.”

“Just until you know I can resist you,” Don agreed, utterly but exaggeratedly solemn, to see if he could provoke a smile. He did.

“I think,” Raine said, newly tentatively hopeful, another facet Don hadn’t previously seen and instantly wanted to see more, every day, every new piece of their hearts meeting, “maybe texting would be okay? The phone? You have my number…and I have yours…”

“I’ll send you updates on your cactus,” Don vowed, and Raine left while they were both smiling, smiling because anything else would crack the last lingering hope of the world’s succulents and sunflowers in half.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they're figuring out how to do this.

Raine did not come in at all the next week, even when Don wasn’t there. Someone else from his law firm dropped by daily, though, and picked up coffee orders and took them away upstairs.

The someone else was human and tall and had broad shoulders and smooth dark skin and short dark hair and a charming ready smile; he said his name was Henry, and he wore suits almost as well as Raine did, fitting right in with that affluent attorney image, and he chatted easily with Kit and Annie. He also looked Don up and down in a way that suggested curiosity, appreciation, and approval.

Don’s heart lurched. It was not prepared for this in any way, and the look seemed more evaluative than flirtatious, but nevertheless: this one of Raine’s law-firm partners definitely had an eye for men.

And Henry, every day, worked with Raine. Henry accessorized with tie-pins and an expensive watch. Henry had volunteered to go on coffee runs for the entire firm, being nice.

Henry noticed Don noticing all these things, and said, offhandedly, the third morning they encountered each other, “You know this weird thing happened in a meeting, yesterday? I came in with your coffee and I swear I saw our resident magical professional cynic crack a smile. Like, it was crazy. We took notes.”

Don’s hand slipped, fortunately recoverably, setting a to-go cup on the bar.

“Raine’s right about this place,” Henry said, “you make good coffee, I’ll have to bring the husband in sometime, he’s a member of the tea-drinking tribe but I bet you could convert him.” He was indeed wearing a wedding ring, subtle and unfussy and gold. “So we all like it when he smiles—that’s Raine, not my husband. It’s a lot less scary for clients, y’know? So you two need to hurry up and do whatever it is you’re doing and make our newest partner happy again, like, yesterday.”

Husband, Don thought; and breathed. And Raine’s law-firm partners, despite the joke about being less scary for clients, genuinely cared: that was present in Henry’s gaze, unwavering over the assortment of cups.

He said, “I want him to be happy. And here—” He dove for the pastry counter, grabbed a lemon tart, shoved it that way. “Tell him it’s not a gift. It’s a favor. For me. Making room for the peppermint holiday tree cookies.”

Henry laughed, agreed, “So you know him pretty well, then,” and balanced the cup-carrier and the tart in big hands. “See you tomorrow, man.”

Don waved. He did not mind Henry, he decided.

He started planning ahead. He sent Raine, via the dependable Henry, his heart in the form of coffee: strong and bold, with a dazzling variety of beans and roasts.

Arabica. Robusta. Viennese. Italian. Complicated blends. Spices and smoke.

He also sent Raine cactus pictures, as promised. Still alive. Thriving.

Raine began texting him pictures of the empty to-go cups, with small hand-drawn happy faces and notes: _I like this one_ , or _yesterday’s had more cocoa flavor?_ or _there’s something with pepper notes in this one, right?_ Don smiled at every photo, answered swiftly and without making any demands, and kept each one tucked up in the cracks of his heart like an antique photo in a time-bronzed locket, to be opened and looked at again whenever those cracks needed some mending.

Raine’s celebrity case, all wrapped up and finalized, made the news. It had indeed been a nasty divorce. Lots of viciousness and drug and sex scandals revealed on the husband’s side, lots of money on both sides, and the tabloids gushed over the story for a while. Raine’s name eventually surfaced, though not with much commentary, mainly only a note about him providing counsel for the wife in question, which was public record, plus some comments on his reputation and hiring the best. One or two stories raked up the older rumors about Cupid talents and speculated seduction of wealthy clients, and Don ached on Raine’s behalf, but nobody seemed to take those comments seriously; Raine’s old LA firm, the one that’d asked for his assistance, went on record laughingly pointing out his inarguable prestigious degree and equally inarguable track record, and that seemed to be that, especially because the rest of the story was juicier in any case.

Don texted, gingerly, _Sounds like you did a good thing, getting her out of that_. He did not know whether Raine wanted to talk about it.

Raine retorted, _Don’t think I’m any sort of hero. It’s her story. Her choice to leave. And I got paid to help find her the best way to do that._

_You didn’t have to take the case. You could’ve said no._

_And leave her at the mercy of my irritatingly talkative former partners, when I could handle it better? No_.

Don looked at that text for a moment, thoughtfully. Of course Raine did not like friends coming to his defense in the press. But he would’ve known, agreeing to help out, that there’d be a chance his name and those old rumors would be part of the conversation.

_She’ll be happier in the end because you said yes. If I send you a sandwich will you eat it? We went through with that partnership and we have actual café food now, or we will soon, and I could use a test subject who isn’t me or Kit. Here’re the options, if you want to pick one._

If he phrased it as a practical business suggestion the request might sneak through. He waited.

He could all but hear Raine sigh, but the answer arrived as _black pepper turkey and cranberry chutney, then._

Tart, surprisingly autumnal, and spicy; Don grinned, and made sure it was waiting when Henry stopped by.

Ausriné, unprompted, offered updates on Raine from weekend mornings over at the Spark center; she’d begun volunteering too, and they saw each other sometimes. Raine, she said, had gotten more touchy and less patient with anyone he thought was wasting his time, but conversely more willing, if politely asked, to settle in and spend hours painstakingly and without charge going over Personification registration requirements, governmental red tape regarding indexes of abilities, the paperwork involved in taxes and jobs and integration into the world. She said he looked thinner, but smiled at his phone when texts came in, and she thought Don would want to know.

Don did want to know. Don liked knowing that Raine was helping people, smiling, staying warm in biting cold. He worried about the getting thinner part.

He also asked Rin what he could do to help out at Spark, if they needed anything he could offer. This wasn’t because of Raine, exactly, and it wasn’t because of guilt, exactly. But he knew it was a good cause, and he knew he himself was comfortable and well-liked—the Frosts generally were, artistic and harmless and not heavily powered—but not every Personification fit into society so seamlessly, and he found himself thinking about that more and more. Rin said she’d ask the center’s steering committee, and Don discovered himself supplying coffee for the next all-hands meeting, and then as a monthly donation to the center itself.

It wasn’t a lot, not a practical form of assistance, not like what Raine could do; but he thought maybe it did help. Uplifting. Heartening. A small luxury. That mattered.

Three days after that new arrangement he got an out-of-the-blue email. It contained an offer so generous and unexpected that he did not know how to answer, and sat in the office staring at it for twenty minutes. And then he texted Raine.

_Do you know anything about why the editor-in-chief of the Seattle Preternatural news media group wants to buy their entire corporate supply of coffee from us?_

Raine’s reply came back as precise as broken glass. _If you’re asking whether I used my particular magical gifts to charm Ginevra Williams into an unethical agreement, I did not._

Don raked a hand through his hair, opened his mouth, closed it, and snatched up the phone. _Can I call you?_

_Finishing a conference call. Six minutes._

Six minutes passed. Don, assuming Raine approved of punctuality, dove right in. “I know you didn’t. You wouldn’t. You _know_ I trust you. I asked whether you knew anything. I literally meant exactly what I said.”

“Oh,” Raine said.

“So,” Don said.

“In that case,” Raine said, “I had one of your cups with me in yesterday’s meeting—I can tell you I’m representing her, that much is public information—and she recognized the logo and became extremely excited about your summer blackberry mocha concoction. I said I came in every day—”

This was stretching the truth in creative ways around present circumstances, but Don let it slide, giddy.

“—and I may have mentioned your recent charity work with Spark. We agreed that community cornerstones and local businesses should be supported, and she called her assistant on the spot. Not my doing.”

Liar, Don thought. I love you. “So you did know something. If I say yes, and we supply their local news empire with caffeine, we won’t be taking business away from somebody else, will we?”

“They haven’t had a contract with anyone. The break room’s been getting whatever’s on sale, and Ginnie sends her assistant out for whatever the department heads want. So no, you’re fine. And I imagine the assistant will be happier.”

“We’re going to have to hire someone else,” Don said. “If you’re going to expand our customer base to half the media outlets in the greater Seattle magical area.”

“You like people,” Raine said. “Have fun. I’m getting off the phone now, because I have to get this motion filed today.”

“You like people too,” Don said.

“How dare you,” Raine said, but he sounded more amused than anything else. “Go put fruit flavors in coffee for unsuspecting victims. Tell me what you make.”

“I’m thinking cranberry,” Don said. “Because you like it. _And_ it’s seasonal.”

“You’re lucky,” Raine said, “that I like _you_. I’m hanging up now.”

“I’ll send you a picture,” Don said, and then, very quickly, “You know I like you too, right?” and he hoped Raine had heard him, before ending the call; he wasn’t sure.

He sent Annie out for cranberry juice and found pumpkin puree and maple syrup. He eyed the darker and blonder roast options.

It wasn’t bad, in the end. Like holiday seasons in a mug, and frothy.

It was also pink, or pink-ish, at least. He put maple drizzle on the top and sent Raine a picture. Raine sent back _thank you, I’m sufficiently horrified_ , followed by, a heartbeat later, _I’m working on knowing that. What you said. I think I’m getting there. I want to_.

Raine spent Thanksgiving itself back in Los Angeles, or more accurately a suburb around the edges of LA, visiting family. Don knew this because he texted about going home, and added, _It’ll be awfully polite, or politely awful, or both. Likely both. They haven’t disowned me yet, but they don’t approve._

Don handed over cranberry-maple coffees—they’d caught on, to Raine’s dismay—for Eloise and Eloise’s girlfriend, whose name he’d learned was Sabrina, and left Kit in charge of the counter. _Why not? You’re a rock-star lawyer._

_DIVORCE lawyer. I’m not a sex therapist or a marriage counselor or even an old-fashioned matchmaker. I’m the family rebel._

_You do get drunk and get tattoos._

_ONE TIME. And I never told you about that, nothing at all, what time was that? And certainly I didn’t tell you how much I enjoyed it. The tattoo part, not the hangover._

Don lifted an eyebrow at this response. _What sort of enjoyment was that, again?_

_The very fun kind, particularly once we got home and into the bedroom. Apparently it affects some people like that. Endorphins, adrenaline, intensity. Euphoric reactions. I told you I wanted another one, didn’t I?_

_Do I get to be there?_ Don typed, and didn’t send. He wrote instead, _Speaking of you being kinky. Learning new things about you all the time._

 _If I get another one,_ Raine wrote back, after a long enough pause that Don wasn’t sure he would, _I want you there._

_I want to be there._

_And now I’m thinking about that while trying to pack, thanks._

_Go pack,_ Don sent back—both an order and a retreat from thoughts they shouldn’t be thinking yet, each of those true, and he thought Raine would appreciate both. _Text me when you get there so I know you’re safe._

He could picture Raine rolling those eyes, but the notification popped up: _Yes, sir, and thanks for uselessly worrying about me._

 _You like it,_ Don sent back, and got back a photo: Raine’s purple belt, neatly coiled in a suitcase. His heart did a flip; he ended up grinning at the espresso machine. _I’ll think of you when I make a white chocolate marshmallow peppermint mocha later._

_Don’t you dare. Something that actually tastes like coffee, at least._

_Every time, peppermint or not,_ Don sent back. Raine did not reply, but that was fine; that felt like the right note.

His own family was scattered but loving; the Frosts were hardy perennial Personifications, and grew branches just about everywhere. Most of them had gone into the arts, or occasionally into odd quirky professions like ice sculpting or, for the mechanically inclined, the development of better freezer technology. His older brother John, down in California, did something mysterious and classified involving governmental research on spaceflight and icing tolerance; their parents still lived north of Seattle, up in Bellingham, where their mother taught art at the university and their father hadn’t yet retired as the local-news weatherman, and both of them complained goodnaturedly about children not visiting enough. Both Don and his brother were planning to come up at some point during the holidays, though, which would make them happy.

He pictured introducing Raine to his parents. To his brother.

He did not know whether Raine would even want that, meeting the family, being dragged into an annual snow-fort competition or chaotic gingerbread baking and gift-opening with the youngest shrieking cousins. Raine’s own family sounded, from that brief commentary, less than supportive.

Raine liked cooking, though. Maybe baking as well? Don wasn’t sure, but made a mental note to ask. Maybe the savory kind, if not sweet.

He thought that his parents would like the man Raine was: complicated, hiding love for the world behind well-practiced spears and arrows, but showing up every weekend to volunteer free legal services for the magical community. Remembering that people liked honeycomb. Trying, in the best way he could, to protect someone he cared about.

They’d get along, Don decided. Maybe not instantly—and for some reason even that made him smile, because Raine _was_ complicated and private, not open as a book and legible to everyone—but they’d appreciate each other. He knew they would.

Whistling, he went back to playing with flavors. Gingerbread, he thought. Something with spice.

On the first day of December Don came in early and smiled at his windowpanes; he put a hand on them, let frost emerge and take shape, nudged the shapes into gleaming blue-white art. Snowflakes. Spruce trees. A sledding scene. A gingerbread house.

He etched a frozen pond into one window, with skaters and spectators, some of the latter clutching steaming mugs of coffee or cocoa. He drew a tiny dog, too. It looked like a beagle, and the memory caught his heart in silver; he did not know whether that pain was bad or good, biting anguish or welcome optimism.

Not forever, Raine had said. Some time. A promise. A lifeline.

Don put on the day’s apron, and started brewing the morning’s first cup, hot and strong. He had a few interviews that day. New possible hires. Both human and not. Several from Spark.

Craft beer collaborations, and the December holiday brewers festival, arrived. They were overall fantastic; people raved about coffee and vanilla and bourbon-barrel notes, and bought limited-edition bottles from Luke. The local newspaper even ran a lighthearted fluffy piece on neighborhood businesses supporting each other, for which they all agreed to flustered-but-proud interviews and posed with beans and hops for staged photos. Don hid a few bottles away for special occasions, and happily agreed to future projects, maybe some sort of summer ale with lighter coffee notes.

Luke seemed to have taken everything in stride, with no hard feelings, with the bouncy rubber-ball emotions of the young. He asked how Raine was, and sympathized when Don said it was sort of complicated, and then offered a light shoulder-punch of weightless commiseration. Don thanked him, and meant it; Luke was, after all, a nice boy.

Raine did not appear at the craft beer festival, but mysteriously acquired a bottle—they’d completely sold out—and sent over a picture of it sitting on his own kitchen counter, which made an obliging backdrop for the coffee-toned label art. His kitchen seemed to be white and grey and pale sage in color, from what Don could see: light and airy and clean _. I’m supporting you and the puppy._

_You could’ve just asked me for one. I’ve got a couple bottles._

_I wanted to._

Don read this message, reread it, and felt the warmth like a sip of that alcohol: rich and complex as fire, heating him from the inside out.

Another week went by. Time. Moving ahead.

Holidays hung in the air like anticipation. Don tested out flavors of juniper and smoked caramel. Whatever Raine’d once threatened his suppliers with, nothing ever arrived late anymore.

They talked every day. Sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on both their schedules. But always in the morning. Always before bed.

Raine sent over a sunrise photo, taken while out for a run. A photo of his kitchen garden, neat and sunkissed and vibrant and leafy green. A snapshot of his own bookshelves—a lot of history, both fiction and non, some of the latter of the legal variety and some just random fascinating quirks, episodes, biographies. They were scrupulously arranged by genre and time period, and then alphabetized. Don, seeing this after arriving at work, sent back _I see why you hated mine_.

Raine did not answer for an hour or so—likely in a meeting or working on a case—and then replied, _If we ever combine bookshelves please let me organize them._

Raine was thinking about combining bookshelves. Don hugged a bag of fresh beans, and grinned so widely that Annabelle asked whether he was okay. All of his baristas had gone out of the way to hug him or pat his arm or tell him they were rooting for him and Raine, at least once. He owed them all extra holiday bonuses, he’d concluded.

He sent back, _Permission granted_.

The pause was even longer this time, but Raine was of course busy; Don got back to restocking shelves.

His phone buzzed. He picked it up.

And then he ran into the back office and shut the door.

Because Raine, apparently taking this permission as an invitation, had gone back to his own office, lounged artistically across his desk, and managed to take a deliciously flattering photo of himself: holding a book but peeking over it with long-lashed green eyes, legs spread, cock visibly hard in his elegantly tailored plum-wine suit. The contrast was intoxicating: the heavy bulk of that desk, the equally heavy leatherbound legal tome, the expensive fabric that kept him covered up—and the mischief in that gaze, and the unabashed rigid swell of his arousal, blatantly displayed.

His comment after this said: _I’m practicing. Organizing my office books. As you can see._

_It’s a very impressive book. Very thick._

_It thanks you for the compliment._

_Just being honest about how much I like it._

Raine typed, stopped, started over. _Thank you._

_Thank YOU, I think._

_No, for saying that. For all of this. I know it’s asking a lot. Thank you_.

Don started to answer, but Raine wasn’t done; the next message said, _I like you, too,_ and then, _Although_ _I think “like” may be an inadequate word,_ and then, hastily, as if coping with this admission, _I don’t send seductive photos of my office library to just anyone._

 _I’m flattered,_ Don answered. He was. _And I think so too. What you said about the words. Me too_.

Raine didn’t answer that one, but that was okay. Tiptoeing too close, or just close enough. Nearer than they’d gotten yet. Letting the idea gradually take form; the words could follow along.

Don also couldn’t resist picturing that photo while in the shower later. Raine had wanted him to, of course: it was entirely that sort of picture, and they both knew about those fantasies involving desks and ruined suits.

He imagined himself coming up to visit, interrupting that sneaky photo session. He imagined himself pinning Raine against that desk, making his pretty Cupid gasp and shiver and yield to every order. He imagined Raine crying out his name, the way those lips had once before, and arching up in rapture as Don fucked him, spilling release on command across solid professional walnut and his own no-longer-pristine outfit.

Don came with one hand flung across his mouth to stifle the groan, and he wondered what Raine had done after arriving home from the office, and if it’d felt equally good. He hoped so. He wanted to help with that.

When he emerged from the shower he discovered one more photo. This one wasn’t overtly sexual or tempting; it in fact initially looked like a heap of cozy knit blue blanket on a sofa, but included what Don discovered after perplexed tilting to be the edge of Raine’s toes, also cozy, in fuzzy green socks.

He sent, _Glad you don’t have cold feet,_ and then heard the metaphor behind the phrasing, and panicked. What if Raine hadn’t even thought of that? What if Raine _had_?

Raine sent back _I thought you’d want to know,_ which might’ve answered either or both. Don did not know how to interpret this, and settled for a happy face. He was. He thought they were.

Raine came into Brewed mid-morning on December fifteenth, when Don was in the back office answering an email. Don, for his part, came out to find his Cupid leaning casually against the bar and chatting with Kit about the upcoming Marc Hart fashion show and possible tickets. Kit was practically vibrating with excitement.

And Don for a split second forgot all the intervening weeks, because Raine here felt so right, so unquestionable, so much like the routine he’d fallen wholeheartedly into; and then he remembered, and the explosion of apprehension and wanting and hope hit so fast and so brutally that he couldn’t take another step.

Raine looked up. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Don whispered.

Raine was wearing green today, a serious dark three-piece that nevertheless suggested the holiday season and outlined the shape of him, legs and waist and runner’s muscles; he’d let his hair grow out into a faultlessly trendy upward swoop, even more strawberry-gilt waves to bury fingers in, and his eyes were wide and bright and got even brighter when finding Don, as if that sight made his world glow.

Don pushed legs into motion, came over, rested elbows shakily on the counter. Kit disappeared to handle the cash register, but kept an eye on them.

Don said, “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Raine said. “Can I ask you for coffee? Whatever you feel like making.”

Don raised eyebrows at him, and went, and came back. “Try this.”

Raine did. The steam brushed his sharp cheekbones, tangled in those long eyelashes, left him softer and bewitching. “Dark. Not too sweet. But with—”

“A tiny bit of cardamom. Yeah.” He wanted to ask, he needed to ask; he couldn’t ask. “What do you think?”

“I like it,” Raine said.

“You do?”

“I do.” Raine took another sip, added, “Your windows are very festive.”

“Compliment or critique?”

“I’m starting to appreciate art,” Raine said. “Things that make other people smile. Not about reputation, not about recognition, and it might not even last, and it might be ridiculous, but if someone sees it and their day gets better, even for a minute…that’s worth it.”

“I still don’t know whether you meant that as a compliment,” Don said.

“It _is_ worth it,” Raine said. “You’re worth it. I’m trying not to be scared of wanting this. You know me. You said you wanted me. Even after everything.”

“I do,” Don said. “Whenever you’re ready, I said.”

“Do you know,” Raine said, “what day it is?”

“Um…December fifteenth?”

“You don’t remember the day we met, do you?”

“Um…” Don tried to count. About eight weeks, more or less, wasn’t it, before the day Raine’d mocked him for still having Valentine’s decorations up… “Oh. _Oh_. You—”

“I’d’ve come in yesterday, but I couldn’t resist being a little romantic.” Raine’s smile emerged. It lit up the cup in his hand, the stalwart countertops, the entire coffee-shop. “Cupid instincts. Sorry.”

“It’s perfect,” Don said, and it was, it was, even though a few of the regulars were watching, and he was wearing an old green-and-blue flannel shirt and an ancient apron and jeans with fraying cuffs, and they’d broken a blender that morning. “It’s perfect, you’re perfect, can I see you after work? Or whenever you want. We can do anything you want.”

“In fact I took the day off.” Raine lifted an eyebrow at him. “I dressed up for you.”

“Oh,” Don said. Tiny frost-flares burst outward from his fingertips, scattering ice across the counter. “I like it.”

“I’m trying to tell you that I love you,” Raine said. “I told you I’m not good at this.”

Several members of their audience sighed. Kit made a squeaking noise.

“I told you you’re perfect,” Don said, “and I love you, I love you so much, I love you, Raine,” and leaned over the counter and kissed him.

The angle was awkward. The counter dug into his hip. People were applauding. None of that mattered.

Raine tasted like extra-bold dark-roast smokiness and cardamom and joy, and was kissing him back, kissing him and laughing. And the world was, yes, perfect.

Someone wolf-whistled. Kit shouted, “Go home, boss, and tell us all the details tomorrow!” Don resurfaced blushing but not embarrassed; Raine was pink-cheeked and smiling.

He ran out from behind the counter. Yanked off the apron. Yelled at Kit, “You’re in charge, text me if there’s an emergency!” and grabbed Raine’s hand. Raine grabbed the coffee with the other hand, eyes sparkling.

“So,” Don said. “Back to my place?”

“I was thinking mine this time.” Raine squeezed his hand. “I can cook for you. After. Also, cleaner. Less irritating bookshelves. Bigger bed.”

“I was going to comment about you and being prickly,” Don said, “but you won me over with the bed. Take me home with you, Cupid.”

“Your Cupid,” Raine said. “Yours.”

They ran out the door to the accompaniment of cheers. The window art twinkled, waving them on.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone is happy, including Raine's kitchen herb-garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading along! <3
> 
> Also, after Older Sibling sent me the Tom Hiddleston Jaguar commercial, I couldn't resist.

Raine had brought his car, a midnight-blue spotlessly clean example of lawyerly affluence crossed with that triathlete’s need for space and gear. Don did not know much about cars, but noticed a certain very recognizable emblem plus the sleek and powerful lines of the Jaguar’s luxury SUV shape. Raine explained, “I needed something that could handle my bike, and associated mud. And I’m not above doing that in style.”

“Mud?”

“Occasionally,” Raine said, “it rains here, did you know that?”

“Brat,” Don said, in love.

Raine laughed. “I couldn’t resist. I do end up wet and dirty and getting rained on, you know. Especially if I’m out training. I don’t _live_ in expensive suits.”

“Sometimes you do get dirty,” Don agreed. “I approve.” He was still holding Raine’s hand. “It feels like you, too. Your car.”

Raine shot him a look of unadulterated delight. They hopped in. The sky glowed lustrous and opalescent, hung with rain that hadn’t yet fallen; streets and stoplights and the edges and settings of downtown Seattle had never been so lapidary, Don decided.

Raine drove like someone who liked his car and his car’s engine, and the car liked him back. Not dangerous or recklessly flashy, but confident and skillful and with a hint of flair. Don couldn’t look away. “LA freeways?”

“No,” Raine said. “Or not exactly. I have a friend who works as a stunt driver, big Hollywood productions, all that. I was interested and I like being good at things. She’s given me a few lessons. And also I made sure I knew how to drive well in the rain, because, again, you do have weather. Not like LA.”

“Right,” Don said. “California people. But, um, if you ever. Um. Want to show off. Totally a yes.”

“Oh,” Raine said. “So that’s a thing for you, is it?” His voice was innocent, but his sidelong glance was thoroughly not, and neither was the next turn, fortunately at a completely deserted corner. “Interesting.”

Don watched his hands, watched the power and control, felt the purr of the big engine and the acceleration of bodies, and asked, “How do you feel about me shoving down those pants, the ones you put on for me, and fucking you on the spot, right up against your car?”

“I can drive faster,” Raine said.

Don laughed. Raine did drive faster, but only fractionally; they were still on downtown streets.

Sometime, though. Sometime. Definitely. From Raine’s smile, that _definitely_ was true on that side too.

Raine took him to a building that, no surprise, was one of the glittering extravagant high-rises, centrally located and lavish and polished into an ideal; the glass shape felt friendly, though, in a way not all of them did. Pretentious and excruciatingly expensive, maybe; but it knew as much and got a bit embarrassed about the fact.

Raine said, “I needed someplace with parking and also decent storage space and someplace that wouldn’t mind a Cupid in the building, and at least here if you can afford the rent no one cares what you might do.”

“Is that seriously a problem?”

“Not really. Once in a while.” Raine shrugged, twirled the Jag into a parking space in one balletic motion, and shut off the car. “Not any more than it is for you, I’d guess. I’m on the public Registry, and it’s not as if most Cupids can do much. Intuition, short-term infatuation, persuasion. It’s only the rumors. Making people uncomfortable. I told you once I can’t make anyone fall in love, but I could convince them they were, for a while. I could make them want to please me. If I tried.”

Or if I don’t try, said his eyes, and if I want someone badly enough, and I know I could do that, and so do you. He did not move for a moment, hands lingering.

Don said, “That thing about wanting to have sex right here on top of your car, that’s still true, you’re not scaring me away now.”

Raine smiled, and then—quickly, unexpectedly, naturally—leaned over, leaned in, and kissed him. The kiss was swift but coruscating, a shout of emotion; Don looked at him after, and leaned in and kissed him in turn, even more quickly. “Introduce me to your plants.”

“Oh yes,” Raine said. “They’ll like you. They already do. I’ve told them about you.”

Hand in hand, they found the elevator. They found Raine’s floor.

The views even from the hallway were astonishing. Seattle unfolded in steel and water, brick and bridges, a needle and a horizon. Raine said, “You should see the rooftop patio and pool.” Don, whose apartment could be—and had been—described as positively serviceable, rolled eyes at him, but without meaning it. Raine gave a him a sort of half-shrug, midway between an apology for ostentatious amenities and an unembarrassed embrace of them.

They found the right door. They unlocked it, and came in together.

Raine’s apartment was, as Don had guessed from the kitchen snapshot, large and light and airy: open and white and grey and green overall, straight cool lines and minimalist walls and designer furniture and to-die-for city views. But it also felt like a home: the shoe-rack held running shoes, a bike’s handlebar peeked out around the half-open door to the spare room, and that familiar blue knit blanket lay thrown over the cushions of that plush grey sofa. Raine’s bookshelves displayed spines in ruthlessly organized rows, the line-up Don recognized from the picture; the herb-garden bloomed from a side window, and copper pans hung within easy reach in the kitchen.

A loaf of bread, interestingly dark and fragrant, sat on a cooling rack; Don exchanged silent questions with it, and then looked at his Cupid.

“What?” Raine said back. He’d picked up his coffee from earlier, bringing it up from the car; his fingers stayed wrapped securely around the cup. “It’s coffee date bread. I make bread sometimes.”

“This morning?”

“I did have a plan,” Raine said, “that involved asking you to come over.”

Don, who found this admission of nervousness unbearably adorable, put an arm around him, then the other. Raine moved enough to set the coffee-cup down on the counter, and looped arms around Don’s waist, but waited for orders or suggestions or words.

“You made coffee bread,” Don said. If he took a step forward he could capture Raine between his body and that kitchen counter; Raine seemed to like this. “And you told your plants about me.”

“I talk to the plants a lot,” Raine said. “About motions. Rulings. Arguments. Good biking trails. People who make me taste different flavors in coffee.”

“So you tell them the important things.”

“Yes,” Raine said, arms tighter around him. “Yes.”

“You know I love you,” Don said. “You can feel that, can’t you? That it’s right.” He waited a beat, then glanced over at Raine’s kitchen-garden and offered, “I love him, by the way. That’s an important thing. You should know.”

“Ah,” Raine said. “I’m in love with a crazy person who asks my rosemary for permission to court me.”

“I love you,” Don said. “Everything about you. I want to be friends with your rosemary and make you coffee in the morning. I love you.”

“You know,” Raine said, “this suit is a whole year out of style. I don’t think you noticed, when I said I dressed up for you. Kit did, though. I’m giving him my exclusive seats at the next Marc Hart preview show just to keep him from telling anyone.”

“A year—” He stopped. He ran a hand over Raine’s outfit choice: the clinging jacket, the fitted waistcoat, the spruce green fabric over a hip. He did it again just to feel everything: Raine’s body, the shape of him, here and teasing and plotting in advance the fulfillment of fantasies about thoroughly ravished once-flawless layers. “You love me.”

“I believe you said you had ideas.” Raine gave him a sparkling grin that achieved smugness, impishness, and invitation in one. “Put them into practice.”

“Did I say everything? Everything plus one more thing.” He hooked a finger into Raine’s tie, gave it a tug. “I love that you planned this. I love that you want this.”

“I love you,” Raine said. “If you keep doing that I’m going to end up on my knees for you. Scandalizing my basil.”

“Only the basil?” He did the tie-tug again, and Raine shivered against him, wanting. “Not the rest?”

“Honestly they’re all beyond shockable at this point. Even the poor basil. Would you get on with—”

“You want that?” He wrapped his hand around Raine’s throat, instead: only one hand, and not hard, but enough for pressure. “You like this too. My hand on you, claiming you…” The next words came out without any forethought whatsoever. “You’d look good in a collar.”

Raine made a sound like a whimper and a groan and a gasp of “Yes—” simultaneously, hips arching against Don’s, cock hard, eyes huge.

“Oh,” Done said. “Very nice. You’d love it if we did that, wouldn’t you? Being mine.” Raine had said so: belonging to someone. “I’d put you on your knees like that. Naked, with my collar on.”

Raine trembled more, tried to move, to rub himself against Don’s weight and height, but remained coherent enough and astonished enough to whisper, “You know what that means. As a symbol.”

“Yeah. And not, like, now, today, or anything. But you like the idea, and so do I. We can think about it.”

“Yes,” Raine breathed. “Yes. All of that. Thank you.”

“Told you once I’d take care of you.” He brushed a kiss to the tip of that nose; Raine’s eyes rounded more, as if nobody’d ever dared that before. “I like doing that for you.”

“You love the world,” Raine said. “But you also love me.” That happiness streaked gold through his gaze. Magic, Don thought. Yes.

“Yes,” he said aloud. “Come here—” and gathered his Cupid closer for more kissing.

While nuzzling Raine’s throat above that expensive shirt-collar—biting some too, enough pressure and beard-burn to leave a mark—he slid a hand between them, to the rigid welcoming length of Raine’s cock, stroking him through finely woven fabric. Raine moaned and pushed back against his hand; Don nipped at his throat and took a firmer grip on him, caresses more direct and fiercer and more assertive, hand occasionally dipping back between his thighs to play with his balls and his pert backside, still without freeing him from confining layers.

Raine melted against him, head falling onto Don’s shoulder. The spot over his cock had grown damp; already leaking, then, and Don rubbed a thumb over him right there, which made Raine gasp and clutch at him and nearly lose balance.

Don raised eyebrows. Raine murmured, dreamy and flirtatious, “I may not be wearing underwear…”

“You _were_ serious about the suit.”

“You didn’t believe me? Obviously I need to be more convincing.” Raine wriggled against him. “I contemplated wearing something else—think more on the order of toys—but I didn’t want to assume.”

“But you made bread.”

“I wanted you to come over,” Raine said. “I wanted you to have options. Including me and this suit, if you wanted that. Please do that again.”

“Asking nicely?” He stopped playing with Raine’s cock at all. “Is that how you convince me?”

Raine opened that mouth, shut it, and finally went with, “ _I_ was serious about the suit, but I’m not sure _you_ are; I thought you had plans for me, _sir_.” He wasn’t quite laughing, but the merriment—and the approving desire—glinted in his gaze.

“Oh, I do.” Don pulled him more upright and spun him around, hands on his shoulders. Then jerked the suit-jacket down. Halfway. Immobilizing those arms. Hand back at the base of Raine’s throat, pulling him close, letting him feel the jut of Don’s arousal against his backside. “I think you need a reminder. About what you ask for, and what you get.”

Raine moaned his name, and a yes, and leaned back against him, as much as possible. Probably the jacket wouldn’t hold if Raine emphatically tried to get free, but that wasn’t the point; they both knew it.

Outside, clouds tumbled and rolled: gathering silky sky-folds over the city, over the ocean, on a winter morning as that morning spun toward afternoon. The air beckoned; Raine’s apartment held them securely between architecture and storms, framed by tall windows.

They had the exact thought at the exact same time, perceptibly so; Don held him tighter, and found his cock with the other hand, caresses inexorable and demanding and just the right side of rough. “You know no one can see us—we’re not even next to your windows, even if they are open—”

“No,” Raine said, “no, I mean yes—I mean, no, no one can see us—Don—”

“You like that idea, too, don’t you, little Cupid?” He kept his hand moving: ceaseless ministrations, and Raine’s hips were rocking, pushing into his hand, and Raine’s breaths were shakier and swifter, and that wet spot was much more wet now. “You wouldn’t really, and I wouldn’t—you’re all mine, you keep other people out, you’re _only_ mine, and I want that—but you like thinking about it. About me fucking you against one of your windows, or up against your car, or in whatever club that was you went to, and you’re going to take me sometime—you like the idea of it, being mine in public that way, whatever I wanted to do with you—just imagining it is getting you off, isn’t it, right here in my hand—”

“ _Oh_ ,” Raine pleaded, and shuddered everywhere, head to toes, whole body strung out with need. “Don, please—I need to, I have to, I’m so close—”

“No,” Don instructed. “Not until I let you. Until I make you, and you come when I want you to.” For good measure he took the hand on Raine’s throat, looped it into the tie, and brushed the end of the tie across Raine’s mouth: forest-green over pink lips. “And I decide what you need. Because that is what you need from me, isn’t that right? Just letting go. Trusting yourself to me.” He kissed Raine’s ear, breathed, “You can trust me. You always can. I love you.”

Raine let out a quiet shivery exhale, and tried to lean into him even more, though this was difficult with bound arms; that was right at the edge, though, the way Don’d seen him once before: sliding into that blissful tranquil space where everything became billowy and hazy and washed with light.

Don ran hands over him, petted him, told him he was beautiful; told him that he was absolutely perfect, that he was loved and cherished, and that consequently Don would take care of him and give him exactly what he needed; and Raine made delicious tiny sounds and moved almost helplessly, instinctively, with the fondling.

Don let those strokes grow rougher again, firmer, speeding up; Raine whimpered and whined and begged, not aloud but with his whole body. Don murmured into that ear, “Yes, you can come, now—like this, in your fancy suit, with my hands on you, I love you.”

Raine came shaking and soundless and surrendered in Don’s grip, going tense and then collapsing back against offered strength; his release spilled out into his suit, under Don’s hand.

Don held him, ignoring how badly his own body ached for reprieve—he’d very nearly already come, also dressed, at the sight and sound and feel of Raine lost to ecstasy in his arms—and kissed him, supported him, smoothed rumpled waves of hair back from closed eyes. Raine murmured his name, languid and drowsy in radiance.

After a few seconds those eyes opened more. Raine said, dazedly, “Was that part of your plan?”

“Considering how you look right now, yeah, that was exactly the plan.” He kissed Raine’s left eyebrow this time. “Want me to get you out of that suit?”

“Mmm,” Raine said. “One minute, please,” and then knelt, actually went to both knees with arms still imprisoned behind his back and the front of his pants displaying the evidence of his surrender and elation, and gazed up at Don: kneeling there quietly in the middle of his apartment.

The day was an ordinary weekday. The moment was extraordinary, cloud-wreathed, elated. Raine’s eyes were joyous and devout; Don couldn’t not reach down to touch him, to cup his face. The same expression must be in his own gaze, he knew.

“I love you,” Raine said. “I love you. Now get me naked, please.”

“Giving orders?” Don said, and took his shoulders and pulled him back up. “Where’s your bedroom?”

Raine’s bedroom proved to be equally clean and white-walled and welcoming; sage-green waterfalls of curtain framed the windows, an abstract art piece in oceanic colors danced on one wall, and Raine’s bed possessed a plush deep grey headboard and a fluffy cream duvet and, impressively, navy blue and blatantly expensive silk sheets.

Don raised eyebrows. Raine, arms freed and looped around Don’s neck as much for balance as closeness, said, “I may have also changed the sheets this morning.”

“You know you don’t have to impress me.” He nudged their noses together. “You already do.”

“Remember you’ve said that when I put the flannel sheets back on.”

“ _You_ have flannel sheets?”

“It’s cold in your city!”

Don started laughing, hands busy peeling off wrinkled pieces of that happily despoiled suit, tossing them toward the empty hamper, or what he guessed was the hamper, all white and square and pristine and moderately intimidating in the corner. Raine naked was even more spectacular than the first time, if that was possible, but also noticeably thinner. Don wanted to wrap him up in blankets and coffee and bring him lemon tarts, and also to toss him into bed and keep him there for a week while testing how many orgasms a Cupid could have in each twenty-four-hour day.

“Also,” Raine said, pink-cheeked but willing, “they might’ve reminded me of you.”

“And now you have me.” He’d got his Cupid naked; he touched Raine’s chin, lifted it. They were nearly the same height, but not quite. “I can keep you warm.”

“Yes,” Raine said. “Yes to everything. Are you planning to be naked also at any point? Or are we done?”

“Cactus,” Don said, with adoration, and spanked him, just once: a carefully aimed swat. Raine yelped, grinned, and even batted eyelashes. “Do that more sometime, too. Not too much, but some.”

“You said it wasn’t about the hurt,” Don said. “I remember. More about the correction. The attention. Because you like the reminder. Not right now, though.”

“No,” Raine said. “Now I just want you, I think. I feel so…it’s good, definitely good, but also like I want to feel you, I want you on top of me, I want you inside me, however you want me.”

“You’re good with that?” He caught Raine’s cock, half-hard and wet-tipped, in a hand; Raine let out a little sigh, and Don stroked him gently. “Not too much, if I’m inside you, after that?”

“I actually like it,” Raine said, more pink now. “I like being that sensitive. It’s almost too much, but then it’s not, or it is but it’s good. Being overwhelmed by it. By you, please, right now.”

“I can’t tell if you’re giving me orders or taking them,” Don said, entertained. “Go lie down, then. Where’s your lube?”

“Bedside table next to you,” Raine said promptly. “Top drawer. Most of the toys’re in the bottom drawer.”

“We’ll get to that.” He lost shirt, jeans, boxers; he had not planned for this day to be today, had not dressed up to match, but that didn’t matter. Raine loved him; Raine had come back to find him, and had said the _I love you_. Had said it first, and had kissed him in the coffee-shop, and in the car, and Don wanted to kiss him every single place in the universe, because only that might be close to the right amount of kisses. “Hands above your head. Don’t move.”

Raine stretched obediently out—those muscles on full display, tattoo rippling—and lounged, watching.

Don shut the top drawer, and came to join him.

The sheets were decadent and smooth. Raine’s skin was decadent and smooth too, celebrations of freckle-stars and expanses of fiery ink. Don touched his hip, his stomach. “You’ve lost weight.”

“I’ve been running a lot,” Raine said. “And out on the bike. As a distraction. I do eat.”

“Might have to feed you coffee bread in bed. I didn’t know you could make coffee bread.” He trailed fingers over Raine’s chest. His cock ached with need, with the desire to sink into Raine’s heat and bring them together and make sure Raine knew it all, how much Don loved him, how much Don wanted to fill every empty space with that love. His whole body ached with that need, a vast exquisite love so sharp-edged and bright it was nearly painful. He wanted Raine to feel it all with him; he thought, fingers stroking the edges of flame, that he would spend a lifetime showing his Cupid that feeling.

Raine licked those lips, and kept watching him, eyes excited and peaceful and enchantingly green.

Don traced the closest curl of fire again, and let frost bloom: the barest hint of power, not enough to freeze, just enough for delicate ice-patterns over Raine’s skin, a decoration.

“Mmm,” Raine said. “I like that.” His hands hadn’t moved, listening to orders.

“Thought you might. Feeling it, knowing who you belong to…” Fingertips and thoughts etched art into being: abstract and swooping, following the lines of that tattoo, ice and fire; lower, ice-vines twirled across Raine’s chest, stomach, a hip, and formed a coil near ginger hair, at the base of his cock. “You look good like this.”

“Naked,” Raine said, “and covered in you. Your gift. The way you want me to feel.” His breathing had sped up; his cock was stirring again, spent once but recovering. “Though feeling even more of you would be nice, if—”

Don closed the hand around his shaft, purposefully: a single pulse of cold against flushed tender flesh. Raine gasped, stopped talking, lay in place panting a little. His eyes were enormous; Don stroked his stiffening cock a time or two, kindly but sternly, holding him in a deliberate grip.

Raine gave a tiny sob, bit down on his lower lip, and shut both eyes; pink stained his cheekbones. His cock twitched, pulsing.

“Eyes open,” Don said. “Tell me if you’re not okay.” He wavered over words, added, “Don’t hide from me.”

“I’m not hiding,” Raine whispered. “I’m not, and I’m okay, it’s only—it’s so much, it feels like—I don’t have words. Please. Please make me feel everything.”

“I love you,” Don told him again, and took the hand off his cock for a moment, a respite, and scooted up for a kiss. Raine kissed back eagerly, not passive but letting Don take charge, actively opening up and giving way to any suggested plundering.

Don ran a hand over his arm, over muscles kept in place through simple desire. Raine’s skin, painted in gradually drying ice-shimmers, was chilly but not badly so, warming again under caresses. Don touched a fingertip to the hollow at the base of his throat, and coaxed winter lace into being: the thinnest possible web, intricate and crystalline, diamonds that’d fade back into water momentarily but until then wrapped around Raine’s throat without pressure, like a promise of a symbol, like a vow.

Raine caught breath, registering this, understanding; his body pressed closer to Don’s, wordless. His eyes were even more enormous and held a glimpse of matching water, pooling in all that green; he blinked and it was gone, but Don stopped to check on him, hand cupping his cheek, nose to nose. “Still good feelings, right?”

“So good.” Raine’s voice was small but certain. Clear as sunbeams, as gifts and gestures, as fresh-baked bread and the moment he’d knelt at Don’s feet. “You’re so good at that. Being what I need.”

“You said once it was annoying.”

“I couldn’t not love you,” Raine said. “I was in love with you that first day. I’m not hiding from anything, anymore, with you.”

The choice was kiss him or start to cry, so Don did the former, with some shaky tremulous champagne-bubbles hovering just below the surface. He made this kiss assertive enough, commanding enough, to leave Raine shining-eyed and malleable and liquid under him, spiky edges not gone but submerged in sweetness; he sat up and stroked hands along Raine’s thighs as they parted for him, and he bent and employed fingers and lips and tongue, tasting. His mouth memorized Raine’s inner left thigh, the heat at the tip of his cock, the weight and length and girth of him, wholly hard now and intriguingly delicious. Raine’s desire carried, alongside familiar male arousal, hints of that same cinnamon-vanilla scent that sometimes lingered, and Don wanted to drink him down like liqueur, like a rare and intoxicating dessert.

Raine’s lube was unquestionably also expensive, and slippery, and slid across skin like glass; the ice-patterns were melting, water drying in spots but leaving a few small pools to highlight freckles, to amplify ginger and gilt. Don moved fingers inside him, teased him with a flare or two of cold, made him moan and spread those legs wider, then moved atop him, settled between those thighs, and moved into him.

Raine moaned again, a sound that contained a yes and Don’s name and the word love in there too; he did not move his hands, because Don hadn’t told him to, but his body arched and welcomed the penetration and pleaded for more. Don caught his legs, shoved them up, and thrust deeper, slower and drawn-out but with punishing force.

Again. And again, as powerfully as he could; he was aware that he was teetering on the brink of loss of control. Raine was breathing in small sobs and pants and cries, body wet and slick and glorious under him, around him, surrounding Don’s cock; Raine was his and he was Raine’s, like this, together, and that was everything.

Those big green-gold eyes were clouded with pleasure, with burst after burst of unrelenting sensation; but Raine looked up at him, and the pure elation in that gaze went through Don like an emerald arrow: jewel-tipped and heart-piercing and bursting into too much need to contain.

He slammed hips forward harder, heard Raine cry out, and dropped one hand to grip slim wrists, which had been so well-behaved. He felt the tidal wave rise, crest, crash forward; he gasped, “Now, I want you to, I want to feel you—” as the flood swept through him and poured out into Raine’s tight heat, and Raine, eyes still holding his, quivered and clenched around him and came as ordered, cock jerking and emptying itself across his stomach in weak spurts.

Don groaned, felt another pulse or two throb through his body, ebbing but drawn out by that sight, and pushed deeper, buried in him; letting Raine’s legs drop, he gathered his Cupid close, covered Raine’s lips and nose and cheekbones and eyebrows with kisses, cradled Raine’s head and skimmed fingers over that elegant throat where ice had melted to water-droplets.

He whispered, “I love you,” and Raine trembled under him, open and claimed and vulnerable and euphoric, feeling the words more than hearing them, being entirely his.

Don held him for a while, until gradually becoming aware of dampness and messiness and a minor background concern about the state of fancy sheets. Raine wasn’t asleep, but wasn’t precisely awake either: drifting someplace unfocused and drenched in ecstasy and release and submission. Don considered this, wanted to hold him forever, sighed, and tried to figure out clean-up.

Raine woke up enough after a few minutes to say, “Did you use my pants as a towel?”

“Hi there. You said I could ruin that suit. And you already sort of came all over those pants anyway.” He waited for this to be processed—Raine wasn’t _that_ awake yet—and added, “Love you.”

“I did.” Raine blinked a few times, coming back more. “I love you. I do own towels. And there’s a box of tissues in the bottom drawer.”

“I didn’t want to go through your drawers, and I figured you had towels in a bathroom somewhere, but you held onto me when I started to get up, so I couldn’t go far.” He tucked Raine into arms, ran a proprietary hand through that hair. “How’re you feeling?”

“Oh, wow,” Raine said. “I know I should have some sort of sophisticated descriptive vocabulary, or at least something sarcastic about you and going very far, but. Wow.”

“So that’s good, then.”

“I’m exhausted and sticky and you’re enormous and that was not exactly gentle.” Raine stretched out a leg, folded it back up. “I might be sore later. Not bad, just enough to feel it. Which I like. And I feel incredible. Did I tell you I feel incredible, because I do, and it’s because of you, and that’s fantastic.”

“Good.”

“I’m yours.”

“Also good.” He rubbed Raine’s back, tangled their legs together, suggested, “Warm enough? Blankets? Shower? Bread?”

“Oh, we’re back to the caretaking. Yes, sir, all of those.” Raine yawned, found the corner of Don’s mouth for a kiss, and stuck toes under Don’s ankle for warmth. The _sir_ was flippant and casual, as familiar as Raine’s ironic sense of humor, and therefore as true. “Oh, right. I meant to tell you earlier, before you made me come in my suit in my kitchen with your magic hands—”

“I enjoyed that, and so did you.”

“I wasn’t complaining. I told you I wasn’t hiding anything anymore. I had a job offer. From my old firm. After the consulting work on this last case. They promised anything I wanted, if I’d come back and save them more.”

The air vanished from Don’s chest. Los Angeles. Raine’s old life. Partners who needed him. And Raine, for all the spikes, gave himself again and again, when people needed him.

But Raine’s eyes were steady on his, and Raine’s body was warm and untroubled against his; the bedroom folded serene white walls around them, and the clouds outside rumbled with stormy encouragement.

“I turned them down,” Raine said. “Well, mostly. I said I’d be happy to consult if they paid me a lot of money, and I’d maybe even fly down a few times, because I don’t mind helping and I don’t mind being told I’m a genius, but I have a life here. I like my firm and my partners. I even like Henry, even though he took a picture of me smiling at a text from you the other day, so please tell him I officially despise him. I like being there for the kids at Spark and I like thinking about where we could go hiking, if you want to show me your favorite places. I was in fact thinking about that in an extraordinarily dull meeting, three days ago.”

“Raine,” Don whispered, holding him.

“I love you,” Raine said. “I want to cook for you and I want to drink whatever you make for me, because I’ll like it. I know I will. I trust you. I trust you to know what I want, and also what you want, and I trust you with me. I want this, with you. I want everything with you.”

“You already know,” Don told him, “what I want.” He was holding on very tightly now; they both were. “I don’t have any secrets from you.”

“Big and generous and golden,” Raine said. “My sunflower. My Frost.” His smile was more radiant, Don thought, than any sun.

He said, “Yours, yeah. As much as you’re mine. And everything you said—that’s what I want too. I want you in my life. I want a life with you in it. You make everything more organized and more interesting and more real, I don’t know if that makes sense, but, like, you walked in a year ago and got all sarcastic at me about plain coffee and everything stopped being ordinary. I want you. I love you.”

Raine had started laughing at the more organized part, but stopped to announce, “You’re better at the romantic declarations than I am. And I am not crying.”

“You? No. Never.” He brushed a finger over Raine’s eyelashes. “You’re my cactus. And my Cupid. Sort of perfect, you know.”

“I’m prickly and irritated by most people,” Raine said. “You said so, once. I don’t like Valentine’s Day and all the expectations for Cupids, and I do like dressing well and I _will_ straighten crooked pictures on a wall if you put me in a room with them. It bothers me.”

“You can alphabetize our bookshelves whenever you’re ready for that,” Don said. “And then get on your knees, naked. I like giving you my complete attention. With my magic hands.”

“I love you even more,” Raine said, and tucked his head down under Don’s chin, warm and contented and reassured, splendidly so. “I’ll have to look at your bookshelves more thoroughly. Getting to know them along with mine. Thinking about how they might…fit together. Properly catalogued. Combined. Might take some time.”

“They will fit, though.” Don tipped his head against Raine’s—that pale cinnamon hair was soft, tickling his cheek—and pressed a kiss somewhere into the waves. “No rush. But they will. And you can do all the cataloguing you want. Speaking of wanting, feel up to food, yet? You don’t have to get up. I don’t, um, want you to get up. I want you to stay warm. I can go get your bread and come back and feed you.”

“You’re excited about coffee bread, aren’t you? You and new flavors. Experimenting.”

“Taking care of you,” Don corrected, even though they both already knew as much. That truth deserved to be said aloud, though. “ _And_ trying new flavors.”

“I like coffee,” Raine said. “I like your coffee. I like trying new flavors, these days. With you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some songs on my playlist for this one:
> 
> Buzzcocks, “Some Kinda Wonderful"  
> Young The Giant, “Superposition”  
> Greta Van Fleet, “You’re The One”  
> Bad Religion, “There Will Be A Way”  
> Yeah Yeah Yeahs, “Always”
> 
> (Just as a side note, Raine listens to a lot of nineties punk rock - Bad Religion, NOFX, Green Day, Pansy Division, Rage Against The Machine, early Offspring, etc. Don had to think about that for a sec, and then did that little mental reshuffling/reminder again: despite the law degree and the expensive suits and the tidiness, or even _because_ of them, Raine is the family rebel, among his fairly traditional Cupid family. With an impressive tattoo and an interest in kinky sex clubs, too. Looked at from that direction, this taste in music makes total sense.) (Don is pretty flexible as far as music - he generally likes pretty much anything, and doesn't really actively dislike much - but if pressed to pick a favorite will probably mention, oh, Fleetwood Mac, or Mumford and Sons, or the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fanart for Frost & Raine (Raine Amari)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17220857) by [LifeLover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LifeLover/pseuds/LifeLover)




End file.
